That favorite boy of hers, mumbles her name out in the unsecure no-one sorrounding him. They would touch art and share galaxies and laugh until the dawn. She invested her time in him, and vice versa did he invest his time in her. It turned out though, that the odds were dry and not she, nor him, planned to water them. So she got herself a pretty little fiancé; a man capable of nothing but air kisses. He wasn't meant to be, but they were. While the fiancé was far away, she would cut her peonies and make her skin look like shallow marble and braid her hair. All day, every day. But only until dawn, where that favorite boy of hers, would rip of her silk shirt and draw lines between her freckles with his bare hands. Her shaking and pale body would greet everyone she thought was nice - none of them were. All they wanted was to demand her generation to touch their chosen ones and no one else in their entire city. It was tragic, grasped the lady at the hairsaloon, while she was extending peoples illusion of youth.