The moment was beautiful, at least.

Her body was dark as framed by the fire place behind her. The fire flicked and popped at her shapely form, her dress full of polka dots, her hair dark, her lips red. She didn’t see him as he reached from behind, grabbed her and pulled her lips to his. Her involuntary ghasp only made the moment more pleasant.

She yielded, as only a woman in a moment can, and music from the revelers in the other room reached a fever pitch in line with the pressure of their mouths. The held on and on, savoring, unbreaking, until the moment of eventual release and the accompanying ache that followed.

She needed to be kissed. He had kissed her. She needed romance and he had provided. She craved specificity, something to hold onto during lonely nights, and he, seeing a moment, had seized it.

She needed the fantastic. He wanted a story.

She fell in love. By the time they left the room, her face already made him want to vomit.