HE SLAMMED THE GUN IN MY HAND AND TOLD ME TO SHOOT. “You . . . what?” I shuttered, my legs shaking so bad I was afraid I was going to fall.
The Flame Danced. Moving seductively as it twisted around my finger. Twirled up my arm. Lit up my torso.
It was dawn. The trees glistened with morning drew, each its own crystal of light.
“And I don’t ever want to be.”
Our love was like a fairytale . . . . . . minus the fairytale ending. Serendipity without the blessing of kismet. Picasso without the paint.