I had been waiting impatiently for her to arrive. For weeks, in fact. And I was more than willing to pay her way. Her lachrymose, melting eyes went far to validate her value. I would spare no expense.
And last Friday when I got home, she was waiting for me. She no doubt had been waiting for hours, but she still remained as I had first seen her: a serene, sublime, dangerous girl. A Deco vamp, with eyes yearning from the shadows, beneath the lengthened coastlines of her brows. Her hair short and lacquered into an Eton Crop: the slick, harsh masculinity challenging the muted planets of her pearls, the crocheted yoke of her dress, the shape of her mouth.
The mouth. Whoever painted her let all other colors recede like tides returning to their islands: they faded into her cheeks, her temples, her neck. The painter spent all his time and skill creating a perfect, poisonous mouth colored with liquid rubies.
The dark eyes crying out of two wells of silence, the rouge, the broad plains of snowy skin…these qualities of light and color created the face of a vampire who has surrended her will to romance. The 'vamp' was originally called 'vampire': a woman so beautiful, so alluring, with a face so full of peril, that she could suck the life out of her willing victims. She left them bloodless servants, and collected them in her grim, locked household.
Within a face too beautiful to ignore, there are forbidden shores, hidden depths, buried secrets and hidden intents. Approach at your own risk.