Heavy rain came and washed the inky night from its canvas. It dripped, dropped, and then, fell hard and heavy like thick soil, on the heads of trivial figures in the gargantuan universe.
Mascara ran converse-black down her porcelain face. His hair, the color of wet sand, was mussed and his storm-gray t-shirt hung soaked on his slouched body. She picked at her dark chocolate nail polish and he sighed. Apologies were uttered, muttered and their warm, silver breath hung in the air for a moment, and then was quickly battered down to the concrete. Red-velvet vows of love were exchanged, but reality and fate lurked, too close for comfort, preparing to chip away, slowly and inevitably, at their hopeful state.
As they embraced, naive to the tempests ahead, ripe and royal plums were split in half, exposing their bright and bitter centers. The rain ceased and the night altered, now wine-dark, as a rich burgundy swept the sky, full of promises. They smiled like haunted souls and shared a Marlboro. The smoke swirled wild up to the ****** sky, white like a ghost. They stared into each others eyes: hers like morning coffee and his mimicking spring’s blues and greens.
The undesirable, unavoidable chill of bittersweet teased and crept up her spine. The goose-bumps on his flesh signaled the same.