I studied her.

Like an animal awaiting its slaughter, my eyes bored into the gleaming knife my harvester beheld. Her entity was the metal edge, slicing through every loose thread intertwined between he and I.

My husband and I.

The swaying of her hips combatted any dose of my marital future into the glowing path of fire behind her. Each step of her stiletto impaled another wisp of hope, setting it alight into a flurry of ash.

Her eyes illuminated a soft yellow of shadowed gold. Sparkling, crackling magma.

Her concaving neckline lengthened like the passage of molten lava, a soft, fluid motion. Each button slid from its pocket with ease from her nimble fingers.

As she strode, her thighs' brush against each other had the affect of grinding tectonic plates, sending a ripple of shock through my skin, causing the trembling of my hands.

I sunk into the leather of my seat, folding in on myself as if to become one with the furniture when she passed by, pushing her hair at the scalp upwards with her slender fingers.

Pressing the wrinkles from her skin tight skirt, her hands slid down her quadriceps before raising and clasping into a fist. Her soft pound on his office door reverberated through the enclosed sitting room, incessantly ringing in my head.

A sliver of light encapsulated her figure in an angelic glow when the thick black door creaked open. The ringing in my head faded into a gospel choir's song as her plush lips maneuvered into an innocent smile.

She was seemingly pulled inside, her legs dragging after her jerked torso and head.

Once the door slammed shut the room went mute and my body slid back into place and sank to the floor. I burrowed my face into my knees, which I pulled up to my chest.

I heard giggles and the playful hitting of chests and the brushing of hair behind the ear. I went deaf at the sound of smacking lips and clashing hips.

Twenty-seven minutes had passed, as recorded by the chain of the watch my hands held onto for life, for the life we once had.

Announced by the click of the door, she floated back into the room, her hair now a bit frizzy, her skirt sufficiently creased, and the buttons of her shirt done in an incorrect manner, each snug in the hole belonging to the one beneath it.

I choked out a sob, unable to silence my reaction. Officially in her path, I was on fire and it's impossible to burn without a scent.

Inhaling the smoke, her breathing stilled and she faced me.

She brought her hands to play with the cross necklace hung tightly to her throat, her eyes jutted open with surprise; with sin. The gold waned to a bronze in my presence and her large feathered wings shriveled to dust.

I rose from the ground, in just as fragile a place as she. My gait was heavy and echoed a small prayer of misconception.

Our stare belonged to one another, as if we both perceived ourselves to be the prey, waiting for an attack to launch. How hadn't we realized he had always been the predator?

A few feet away from her and a few feet shorter, I punctured my lip with my teeth as she rose her lean arm to embrace my hand in greeting.

As her palm met my own, mine incinerated. In retraction she pulled strings of melted skin with her, the remnants sagging in the air like wet gum.

She swiped the goo and claminess off on her skirt with a fleeting countenance of repulsion, replaced by one of mustered courage.

"Hello Mrs. Mi—"

"Hi," I interrupted to avoid hearing our names intertwined.

"Your husband should be available shortly. How long have you been waiting?" Her fingers began to drum on her legs as she asked. She chewed on the inside of her cheek.

"Long enough."

It was a staring contest—the first to blink lost the man hidden behind the door only steps away.

I always did have dry eyes.

Blink.