Her eyes are the colour of pitch, unreadably warm as she glances down at me. I feel ridiculously small, stretched up towards her in the lights of Leicester Square. “Are you on tiptoes?” She whispers, throwing her head back in a wild, decadent laugh.
She is white light and electric. Her voice burns at my skin and chokes my limbs. I shudder against the cold and her warmth brings me a childlike comfort. She is Artemis, stalking the streets with a fierceness that makes men divert their gaze
“You’re covered in my lipstick,” she says, grabbing my waist with a wide perfect palm. I look up at her again, jaw stretched to the moon as she kisses me. I lose my balance, the lanterns and stares blurred beneath her hair. I want nothing more than her kiss. She’s chloral hydrate, dopamine, distorting the dark and cold into slumber. “Kiss me,” I whisper again, and she does so, harder than before.
“I don’t care. Do you?”
Laughter erupts from nowhere, sinking deep into the depths of our lungs. “We’re really, really gay.”
I pout, fracturing the truth with my usual dose of melodrama.
“Render your lips to mine, sweet Sappho.”
She grins at me with a wide, wolf like hunger.
“You have no idea how much I want to talk Sappho with you, right now.”