"Do you believe in fairytales?" she asks, her eyes flitting over the rim of her glass as it sways in her palm. Overhead lights glitter in the faultless crystal; so perfectly sculptured; so flawlessly aesthetic. Only she can see the subtle cracks in the trunk.

Caught off-guard, his eyes having been fixed on the wisps of hair tickling the nape of her neck, not caught up in her messy bun, he stumbles a reply. "I'm... I'm not sure."

Her eyes flicker back to the glass. Taking a sip of the rich red liquid, a small smile plays on her lips. She places her lipstick smudged glass onto the glossy oak bar. Thick and reliable, she knows this bar like she knows the back of her hand. Glancing down the beverage road, she notes the water rings revealing courtships, heartaches and joyous nights past. Spotting her acquaintances own sweating whisky glass, she knows their one-night story will be a tale forever told by the old oak bar.

"I used to believe," she reveals, her bright green eyes shifting to his. He watches them swim and transform as she traces his features, begging for any change in the tempted eyes she knows so well. His hand inches closer to her soft, bare thigh. She sighs. "True love's kiss, the glass slipper, the righteous turn of luck, the happily ever after. I used to..."

Her voice drifts off into the abyss. His hand again inches closer to her delicious thigh. Her eyes go blank and her trilling laughter rings out.

"Pretty things, aren't they?" she asks vaguely, her eyes peeling away from the swaying glass to his dark, temptation filled eyes. The trilling laughter rings again. It doesn't reach her eyes.

He doesn't notice.

"What are?" he asks, enchanted and confused.

"Fairytales," she whispers in reply, her wide eyes watching his reaction. There is none; none that are any different than the ones before.

Her heart deflated. Her eyes went back to the swaying glass with a small smile that didn't feel real.

"Funny thing about those," she whispers, thoughtless and uncaring. He doesn't listen. Her words drift into the abyss again. His eyes wander over body. She doesn't care. "You never hear what happens after the wedding."

Her words go unheard. Her eyes go back to the swaying glass. His hand inches closer to her soft thigh. Resting coolly on her warm skin, he leans into her hair and whispers in her ear.

"Let's go to my place," he volunteers seductively.

She looks at him, aghast. He sees nothing but lust.

"Very well," she replies dully.


He stirs, sunlight filtering in on his bare shoulders. It reflects off the stale, blinding white of his sheets. He pulls himself up, rubbing the crusted sleep from his eyes. Glancing around the room, he spots her perched on the far corner of his bed, fully dressed in last night's clothes, fingering a heart shaped locket between her thumb and forefinger. The sun's rays shine around her. From where he sits, he can only see a shadowed figure, the bright sun hiding her features. She lifts her head, staring whimsically out the open window. Her front is illuminated; clear and bright and readable. He can only see her dark back, hidden by the sun's light.

A tear lingers on her flushed cheek. Her eyes loiter on the far-off horizon, wishing to reach that brilliant paradise.

"What are you doing?" he asks groggily, perching himself up on his elbow.

She draws a deep, exasperated breath. "Waiting," she replies drearily, the same answer for the same question repeated every morning once the anti-prince stirs from his slumber. It is never her who awakes last. Never is there that rousing kiss.

"Waiting for what?" he presses, not really interested; only agitated.

She stands, walks to the door, and answers over her shoulder in the dark of the doorway. She won't turn around. She won't reveal her tear stained cheeks to the man who isn't her prince. Before she departs, she whispers two last words.

"A fairytale."