Color Me Jet Black


Her perfume hit me in the face like a baseball bat.

I don’t mean that she was wearing too much of it. What I’m tryn’a say is that it did something to me. Emotionally and physically. I was gripped by a sickening excitement. I felt faint. I felt like a caged tiger that has just made a run for his freedom, and succeeded. 

Her hair was cut perfectly, a razor-sharp line that sat just above her brows. Her eyes were doe-like pools of melted chocolate, only slighter lighter in color than her brunette bob. And those high-rise cheekbones that you just know would feel goddamn incredible brushing against your two-day stubble. It had been a long time since I’d had a woman, far too long. Disregarding the hookers, of course. 

This broad was driving me crazy. I was certifiable. I knew it wasn’t the brightest idea in the world to fall for this dame, but you can’t help these things, can you? They’re out of your control; you couldn’t change ‘em if you tried. Call me a fatalist. Call me whatever the hell you want. It’s the truth. 

Thankfully, I didn’t do anything stupid. Like actually talking to her. She was trouble, that was for damn sure. Or, maybe I was the one who was trouble? Without me she would about as dangerous as a kitten attacking a ball of string. I didn’t want to think about that, though. You just don’t go poking around some of them places. 
You’re bound to discover something you wish you hadn’t.