Of Sirens, Real or Otherwise [Entry No. 1]: Smitten on Sight


It is not quite midnight on a midsummer weekend.

Where or when are irrelevant, and thus undisclosed herein.


Once having spotted her in the crowded, warmly lit Georgian foyer, he knew his fate was sealed.

The two had never met, you see, owing to a degree of fortune present in his life which was soon to become a thing of the past.

Her scent could best be described as nostalgic. To breathe it in evoked feelings of longing and warmth similar to those brought on by a fond childhood memory.

Looking heavenly as all hell, she exuded an aura which was anything but inconspicuous; and upon gracing the room with her presence, so too did she curse him with her gaze.

Far from just a stolen glance, it was this marvelous, devastating glimpse into the soul which suggested — deceitfully, it should be said — that her heart might actually stop beating unless it claimed the immediate and undying devotion of his.

In his defense, being subjected to said gaze had historically been synonymous with succumbing to it.

Bearing the same quiet, knowing sense of entitlement shared by elite physicians and all cats, she approached him with no more to offer than reckless abandon and a myriad of empty promises.

He was dead on arrival.

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