I understand that some people dance with Death. But I don't dance. So, we kind of made out on the couch for awhile. Her skin was so warm. Her eyes, hair, and dress -- all black. But rather than a darkness behind those eyes, there was a fire. Couldn't see it, smell it, or even feel it. But she used it well. Expertly. And it wasn't until we went to bed that her touch suddenly became ice. Her breath nonexistent and her embrace inescapable. Eternal. (And we danced, in an odd sort of way.) But even colder was the emptiness... The realization that her seductive fire was never really there. She was a void, filled only with the twisted romance I had put there myself. And, that too, was gone. Forever.