noblese oblige

Eve watched rain fall. It was tenor hours in Lucifer's chalet in the beach side of St Tropez. She nursed a gin and tonic and her long, golden legs were illuminated in hazy sun, her black hair and brown eyes longing. Lucifer was quiet. He'd been quiet all month. It was like a stopper in her inspiration had been capped on the valleys of wine that used to flow.

Constipation. Them joined in hatred. The death of an aeon of love.

Now, bitter. Bitter harvest. Black wrath. The ache of a grave, stilted prose, and the feeling that Walpurgisnacht, night of witches, brought on the staleness of summer, and mourning.

Lucifer was reading Oscar Wilde. Lightning illuminated his tan slacks and white cotton button down. He looked like Jude Law playing Bosie. There was a foppish air, a devil may care holistic disregard for Eve's needs.

It was all about him. His vices. His wrath. Satan's Sorrow. Eve is cast along, left adrift, overwhelmed - demons do that. To humans they love. They'll become crows and rape you at the gallows. With iron limbs, and shards of mirror their skin, they will kiss you til you bleed, then feast on the organ pie of your charred corpse.

Eve looked at Lucifer's white knuckle. It was oddly shaped, too perfect, bruised from a night of brutal fucking. A lost tourist paddleboarded by, far in the distance.

Gin and tonic, gone. Her last self-respect, her beauty, diminished to subtle poison and the wickedness of the wise. It feels so tenderly bad, so awfully wretched, the fading of love.

but who would write, she thought, the devil and woman, in love?