She kept saying something about cardinals, yammering on while I continued to study the swaying cattails, watching sunlight and wind smear through the reeds. I heard her mumbling something about beauty and youth and color but I couldn't quite hear her. I was captivated by a flaming sunset, observing the fire trickle through rippled lake water. Seeing for the first time an effervescent inferno dancing on ever-distant hills. I yearned for heat.
She told me of blood: moist, hissing, exquisite.
She said it was fire; a delectable, searing ecstasy.
"It feels like roses, maraschino cherries, iron scalding across your tongue."
Head down, shoulders slumped. She glared through a veil of strawberry blonde hair, delicate freckles glimmering beneath the sheen. She then noticed me standing beside her, holding a razor and smoking a Marlboro Red. She scrutinized my perfection, glowering at the silken ivory softening my features, at the sable tendrils spooling over my shoulders. She stared at my crimson lips as they glistened.
It was then that I asked her about blood. She stiffened, eyes becoming violent, ferocity tensing into her expression.
Leaking from me. Seeping rage.
Mine, it's all mine. This wrathful glowing ooze.
I am lava, liquid, molten.
She spoke of it as if it were release. "Sometimes it's like apple-soda, rubies fizzing beneath the skin. Your veins will capture carbonation and for once you'll be bubbly, a glaring scarlet sparking lightheadedness between images of vivid rouge. It's slackened muscle slathering greasy pigments between pomegranate tissues;
I'm seeing red again."