Moth to a flame

“I know there is a compliment in there somewhere,” he laughed.

Her lips creased to a perfect Cheshire grin, “You’re a piece of shit!”

The room flooded with laughter, “Ah, there it is—the truth. I wondered how long before you laced that tongue with filth. I guess that’s better than cock, but then again, we both know that’s your second favorite activity.”

Her long dark locks shook from side to side in disgust—another night of truths spoken through alcohol clouds. Long slender digits parted with a stick of white cancer, the tip glowing cherry red. She brought her disgusting habit to her lips, sucking in another taste of addiction to calm her nerves. It was better than the bottle he held in his, well, maybe not, but she would never admit the truth. She was as addicted to her vice as he was to his bottle.

“Do you fucking think you need that?” he snarled.

A quick look at the bottle, then to her hand, she shrugged as she flicked the cigarette towards his face, “Not really, but sometimes you look better through the smoke then you do clear eyes.” A snotty smile brought her lips to a pouty bow as the bottle hit the wall in a rain of glass fragments. Brown liquid dripped down in a river of fury, followed by a volcanic explosion of acidic ramblings from an aspiring drunk.

Cackles of laughter spilled from her lips as the burning cigarette danced with the flammable liquid, flames rising from the rage, the heat warming the room with every inch of traveling seduction. Red, orange, and artic blue filled the room as she turned with one last smile before walking into the shower if scalding fury. The words silenced as she danced her final encore as the curtains dimmed the vibrance of her blue eyes.

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