French Kiss

He used to be such a catch. A clear, intelligent gaze, a gentle face and a perpetual smile on his lips.

But he couldn't smile any more than the crooked grimace that etched itself permanently on his face. It was the expression he imagined she had on before she ran in front of a speeding bus and French-kissed death.

Now, she was gone and well, so was he.

He used to be a storyteller too, a fantastic weaver of fairytales and salamanca.

But the words had dried on his lips and the once-deep pools of his mind had ceased to run, save but to relive how she French-kissed death and said goodbye without words, but with blood splattering on his shoes.

Now, she was gone and well, so was he.