It started as a friendship, the way all good disasters do.
We would sit, him dressed in black, me in my naivete, and we would talk. No, he would talk, and I would listen, enthralled with a debauchery not my own. It was the kind of life I had always wished I could live, and always made excuses that I shouldn't. He told me of the night he drank wine and watched five women make love on his bed, and he laughed when I asked him to tell me again.
All the while, the smoke from clove cigarettes curled around us, making the air as rich and ripe as the conversation.
I had assumed that he was done with that life. I could have seen it coming when he grinned at my rambling, but I was spellbound by his smile instead. Thinking about it now, he never said that he wouldn't show me what it was like. He just never said he would, either.
I was wrong.
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