In which she falls victim for his exorbitant desires, his iniquitous tongue and his immoral ways. And him for the constellation in her eyes but the provocation in her lips.
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THE SECOND TIME Lavinia Summers really lays her eyes on Elias Montgomery, he is glowing brighter than Helios; under a flickering street lamp with an unlit cigarette resting between his bruised lips. He leans against the wall of Paul's and Jerry's bakery, looking half a corpse and half a god.
His thick dark hair tumbles down to his ears in a messy wave, his ocean eyes are still as blue—as electric—as she can remember. The sky is a celestial and triumphant commingle of delicate hues of orange, yellow and pink, all sprinkled and dusted intricately among the baby blues and he looks so out of place; in his black leather jacket and ripped jeans, his knuckles all bloody and bruised.
He stands there with his head down, flicking his lighter and Lavinia walks pass him. He doesn't mind her and continued to flick his lighter in annoyance. She doesn't look at him once, because all pretty boys like him can only make girls like her cry.
"Hey," he calls out to her. He finally looks up at her, his unlit cigarette clenched in his teeth.
She stops in her tracks when she hears that deep and raspy voice after spending an entire summer crying to hear it again.
Boys like Elias Montgomery thrive on heartbreak and tears, immorality and sin. They whisper the sweetest things in your ear, make butterflies erupt in your bellies, let honey and aphrodisiac drip from your aurelian fingertips, give you a taste of euphoria and wonderland, delightful ecstacy until the high runs out and you become just a nameless girl that existed for him.
"Have you forgotten me already, sweetheart?" He chuckles lowly to himself, his eyes glistening in amusement under the gleam of the yellow lights.
Sweetheart.
Lavinia wants to feel her dainty lips place feathery scarlet kisses on his bruised and bloodied hands, while her blissful tongue caresses the outlandish harsh and stinging cut on his heavenly lips despite the voice that renders her as crazy.
"I wish," she mumbles with the remenants of a smile on her lips, the same smile she had playing on repeat when he used to sanctify those entrancing pink lips of hers.
She remembers how he used to kissed her, after his diabolical fingertips sullied her velvety smooth and ceramic skin, and how his machiviavellian lips consumed her erratic soul.
How long as it been?
"You," he stops to gives her a boyish lopsided grin and she smiles at the sight. "Got a light?"
Those summer nights seem so long ago.
"Where have you been?"
"I don't smoke," she replies with a gentle laugh.
"Of course you don't, sweetheart," he reminds himself, shaking his head with a scandalous smile. He tries to light his cigarette again and this time it lights up in the dark, illuminating his face completely as he lights his cigarette.
Lavinia notices that his bruises mark his skin over his own jet black tatooes, bruises he doesn't care about, the ones he likes too gain on impulse and euphoria, estacy and jubilation, where his actions are decided by the spur of the moment.
It makes her wonder if the divine sunsets and her were just a spur of everything.
The sun goes into hiding and the sky finally darkens but she doesn't mind because no sunset can compare to him. She stands there in the tranquility that came with him. She watches as he stubs the cigarette on the wall, staring at her without a care in the world.
"Where did you go?"
He comes closer to her and she can smell his intoxicating cologne, feel the warmth that radiates from his body and his gentle touch on her skin. He pauses and stares at her honey dewed eyes before he draws his hand away.
"I'll see you around," he says softly before he walks away again.
