They kissed like people who knew the world was ending but had dinner reservations anyway. He wore a cheap gray suit with a stain shaped like remorse. She had on torn lace and a look that could make concrete blush. No one around them asked questions because questions were weapons, and everyone here had already been shot full of answers.
The motel behind them had bedbugs and a minibar full of lies. They didn’t notice. Love made them blind. Or maybe just bored. She said he reminded her of a dog she used to own—ugly but loyal. He laughed and told her he’d kill for her, which was funny because he already had. Twice.
They survived on stolen credit cards and the kind of luck that leaves bruises. In another life, she would’ve been a ballet dancer. In this one, she stole cough syrup and painted her nails with gasoline. He didn’t ask why. He just lit the match.
The car broke down outside a liquor store with no liquor and a sign that just said “SORRY.” She sat on the hood and told him about a dream where her skin peeled off and there was nothing underneath. He told her it sounded romantic.
Later, they made love on broken glass. Or maybe they just bled together until it felt like something holy.
When morning came, the sky was purple. And neither of them looked up.
