She wore black and white.

Her pale skin contrasting the short, tight skirt.

Her blouse, too, was black, and her hair hung long behind it, seemingly caressing that slender neck, running mild fingers up and down her smooth smooth back.

Her vest was white, and a silver pendant of a crescent moon hung upon a leather thong between her breasts.

Her lips, like her nails, were red, the deep glistening red of lust.

Of the need of the hunt.

And her eyes, beneath the hood of her splendour, ran quickly over the words of the book held in those delicate hands.

Words seem to fit her, and it seemed right that I should join the many who had written of her, whether as a passing thought, or forever in song.

And so I wrote.

And the words, simple simple words, came pouring out…

“Yet it would seem
As I do here sit
That the surest way to kill a dream
Is to fulfil it.”

My pen seemed to dance. Triumph in being able to write tribute to this angel. The napkin I used seemed gladder for the words. And the angel read on.

And I wondered if, just maybe, she would smile were she to read my own. And she stood up, a light tongue running blissfully across those lips, a gesture sinful in its casualness.

I took a deep breath.

She walked away, leaving her bag, a leather affair, deep deep black, behind, and her book upon the table.

As she went to wherever, my own words, and maybe pride, and certainly curiosity, took control of my limbs, as they had done moments before, in creation.

And the napkin rested calmly beneath that book.

And I sat still, gazing at her beneath the cover of dark glasses, as she came back, every heeled footstep dripping sensuality.

She was holding a drink, sipping lightly, a lipstick mark tracing that illicit kiss.

And she sat, and picked her book up, and noticed the writing, and read my words.

And she dropped her drink, and a look of horror came upon her divine features. Her eyes were wide with shock, and maybe there was fear in her footsteps as she hastened away, her things clenched with white knuckled hands.

And as she walked away, I wondered if she would look back.

And she did, as she looked everywhere else, a frenzied search for the potential assassin.

Oh bother.

I had written a death-threat.