[ Betina turns her head to one side if only to pull deliberately on her cigarette. She considers the end of it as she does so, holding the smoke in her mouth, turning the acrid taste of it over and over on her tongue as if willing that bitterness to linger long after (a gift that she'll give him, along with all the rest). It's tempting, that smoldering tip, the burn that it promises (oh how he'd yell).
In the end she abandons the thought (uncreative, obvious) and turns back to him, her lips parting just far enough to let that smoke seep from the very corners, where her mouth is reddest, rouged crimson by lipstick and wine. ]
Call me a sentimentalist, dear. You know how my heart bleeds for the classics.
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In the end she abandons the thought (uncreative, obvious) and turns back to him, her lips parting just far enough to let that smoke seep from the very corners, where her mouth is reddest, rouged crimson by lipstick and wine. ]
Call me a sentimentalist, dear. You know how my heart bleeds for the classics.