fiftyfive

Her lips whispered blackmail, her throat breathed empty promises. It's ten to midnight and after that I have nothing left. The future is gone and been replaced by something new, but nothing as holy as tomorrow. She keeps the rhythm of the seconds with the toes of her boots and the snap of her finger and the click of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "A strange fascination, you have," she says, with the condescension only reserved for me, "with that which is here and then gone, never to return."