: : Noir : :
He always was a coffee black kind of guy, straight up, without pretense, drink the bitter dregs of this world and call it good. She never thought she'd like the flavor of something so open, raw, and dark.
Mystery burned in eyes of darkness. Still a Southern belle, she takes what is offered and pours what he likes best.
How did they come to this?
This is how she takes him: black as sin, black as a thief, a liar, a wanderer in eyes and heart. She takes the way he never denies his guilts, takes that he never denies the way he wants her. They sit at the little coffee shop down the road from the mansion and drink their coffee. His is noir. She learned to pronounce the word for him.
Never tells him she likes good Southern English and front porch swings and hot and sticky Mississippi afternoons because in New York winters you gotta have something to keep you warm and if it's Cajun and spicy and black—noir—you take it because it's what is offered. It keeps you warm.
But she would be the one that brought him here at the end of each test, at the beginning of each time they turned on the news.
There is no cure for what ails her.
Her last date at the same Starbucks, sipping her latte, watching him slide one finger around the edge of his coffee, black, without drinking it or looking at it. She stares at her own gloved hands.
He would be looking at her. Remy always would.
Dark eyes and dark coffee, rich and bitter, warm and real.
Her last impression of coffee is that he never drank.
Mystery burned in eyes of darkness. Still a Southern belle, she takes what is offered and pours what he likes best.
How did they come to this?
This is how she takes him: black as sin, black as a thief, a liar, a wanderer in eyes and heart. She takes the way he never denies his guilts, takes that he never denies the way he wants her. They sit at the little coffee shop down the road from the mansion and drink their coffee. His is noir. She learned to pronounce the word for him.
Never tells him she likes good Southern English and front porch swings and hot and sticky Mississippi afternoons because in New York winters you gotta have something to keep you warm and if it's Cajun and spicy and black—noir—you take it because it's what is offered. It keeps you warm.
But she would be the one that brought him here at the end of each test, at the beginning of each time they turned on the news.
There is no cure for what ails her.
Her last date at the same Starbucks, sipping her latte, watching him slide one finger around the edge of his coffee, black, without drinking it or looking at it. She stares at her own gloved hands.
He would be looking at her. Remy always would.
Dark eyes and dark coffee, rich and bitter, warm and real.
Her last impression of coffee is that he never drank.
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