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    She was my poison apple. I fell for a veneer of wisdom and appeal draped in clean leathers and designer shoes. The slow song and her chocolate hair, pulled back to frame kohl-lined eyes. Ah, those eyes..where one would typically notice the spark of resolve so often seen in such women, one could only find boredom. The veil of fierce blue glimpsed only indifference.

    The room itself seemed sprung to life as smooth jazz danced into my ears. I noticed her from across the room and felt instant desire; the very definition of this moment being a cliché attraction.

    I felt as if I was walking along clouds, each fading fast as my weight was pressed to its soft folds. She kept her gaze hard, not yet noticing my advances. Tonight, tradition would be rearranged. Tradition that was already so eroded by the folly of time.

    I vaguely recall leaving my scotch on the bar as the canines of lust gnawed at me, hungering and numbing me like a slow morphine. I feel an anxiety tugging at my throat, and absently my fingers adjust my shirt collar.

    Her curves captivate me as she sets her glass down, lipstick smeared on the rim. She gathers her coat, a plush fur mess. The tight leather of her dress is pulled taught as she makes to leave. The music picks up, and I lose sight of her.

    And I knew then, never would I taste the sweet poison I longed for in that forbidden fruit.