Lick.

On her exposed left arm, near her shoulder, was the perfect scar-- a raised, pale brown rectangle that glowed softly like a satin pillow in the light. All I wanted was one little lick. Stealthily, my tongue drew closer and closer and closer still...

... until the elevator doors opened and the perfect scar walked out of my sight, and my life.

Smack.

Dear people,

You don't need to use 'signage' or 'signages' when 'sign' or 'signs' suffice.

Love, actually, no, seething hatred,
Shryh

Died.

Two people died in my dreams two nights ago in two unconnected incidents. The first to go was my young, balding co-worker who had a bad case of the sniffles, so his death was met by a great deal of wide-eyed disbelief. The second death was that of my aunt's, which devastated me so much that I wept with great abandon in my dream, and woke up to a salty, tear-soaked pillow.

Polish.

He droned.

As I mentally applied blush and a shimmery highlighter to those cheekbones.

Pah.

"... it's just that, uh, ah, you appear quite formal, and dare I say, cold, to others..."

Silence.

Eyebrow arch.

"And what have I done to make you think that, my good sir?"