Tragedies and Beauty

I sighed as I once again considered her curves, womanly curves that bespoke an underlying sensuality. But alas, fate did not appear well favored towards me this day. This American puzzle would have to retain its mystery.

“Chica, bella,” I stalled, my usually fleet tongue failing me. My intent, oh it had been as dastardly as it ever was, all swagger and hope for a bit of fun on a lazy afternoon. But inescapable truths slipped through my lustfully fantasizing eyes.

“What?” she challenged without turning. Her body tensed, the gentle curves going taught and dangerous. Whatever doubt I had gave up its grasp on hedonistic possibility and fled. She was, or could be, what I suspected. This was most unfortunate, as she was so lovely.

And I do so hate to rid the world of beautiful things. Life can, of its own accord, be so ugly anyway.

“I’m sorry,” I said simply.

“You should be,” the lovely shot back hotly.

As I slid my hand back to retrieve my switchblade I could only say, “I know, bella.”

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