The smoke of his cigar brews quietly of sour tobacco in the dark. Mischa took the liberty of the next drag, their nimble fingers trace against his coarse hand in a language Aradia knows so well of temptation.

The smoke of his cigar brews again in silence when it left their mouth with a pop. The tip of their lips curled ever so slightly, as “Aradia,” whispered like a spell.

The once unnamed man answered with a kiss.

His kiss was heavy with aftertastes after aftertastes, of kisses that longs to be undone, of Nina Simone’s sultry voice in late summer night, and of newfound ranklings that rung under the sway of his tongue.

He spoke no love of Mischa anymore, and how feeble he is.