The clock ticked, loud and booming, vibrating through the floor, up her legs, all the way through to the tips of her fingertips. He pulled her closer to him, arms strong around her waist, fingers knit together. She could feel his excitement, harder to disguise than her own. If they left out the side door, behind the blood-red stage curtains, the house lights still dim, would they be able to escape? She was the next in line, the one who would need to stay behind and take care of all that she did not create, siblings instead of children, the clean-up on aisle eight from someone else’s mistakes. He would have to go back over the ocean, back to prep-school skirts and well-bred skin and bones to hold. Or maybe it was easier for her to picture them skeletal, cold and brittle to the touch. She wanted her curves to mesmerize him, to turn the growing lust into something worthy of a happy ever after. She wanted this borrowed, violet dress to not have been in vain.

He could love her, she already felt like she loved him.

Or perhaps she just loved what he might be able to offer, the exit stage left, and run like hell.

She and he, they could follow the light of the moon, together.

A Dustland Fairytale (live) :: The Killers

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