~Angel~
There was something about artists and yearning for the perfect body.
A perfect muse. It was nothing sensual, other than the pleasure they’d reel in from drowning in the magnificence of a finished ‘perfect’ painting.
And in that order, I’d convinced myself that I didn't want anything more from Elena, nor from any other woman at that.
Love makes people weak. It preyed on their consciousness, blurring everything else that should have mattered, everything they could have noticed to stop a major disaster from happening.
I knew this because I had been in love myself… scratch that… because I had been infatuated once.
And by the moment it faded, I had lost something I could never get back.
Two knocks on the door reminded me that I had asked for her to come see me. It was too e
