He straightens his tie and buttons up his blazer, appearing to be an experienced attorney-at-law, not an exhausted Columbia grad who can’t handle a long court day. He smiles (a woman’s dream) before squeezing through the congested car. He focuses on every one of her responses as he approaches, preparing to dust the brief conversation with the charm that will eventually wrap her around his long slender fingers. He uses them as skillfully as a spider uses its quick legs, spinning a web of deceit and decadent falsities. The glint of sharp emeralds behind a pair of prescription-less Armani eyeglasses make the targeted woman blush. Her flawless skin shows patches of pink around the cheeks as she watches him push the glasses over the bridge of what could have been King Arthur’s nose. They step out into the dark station and he leads her left.
The luxury of Fifth Avenue could not compare to his dwelling, the court of the most notable Arabian prince could not be matched with his cordiality. But the pleasantries are gone soon. His furrowed brow is that of a petulant child’s when denied something. He slurs insults after every gulp of the liquid courage he keeps at hand on an orderly nightstand. She stumbles out of bed, gathering clothes in the dark, fleeing with the fear of a gazelle once confronted by a lion.
The night passes, as it always does, with nightmares. The sun burns through a curtain too thin to be Egyptian but too thick to be Indian, and an expensive sound system plays an acoustic Rise Against throughout the apartment. He didn’t understand why he hated mornings with such a passion. Perhaps it was the realization that the shadow of his slim figure on crimson sheets was the only thing that would ever lie beside him in bed as he woke up with a grimace every morning.
