It is ultimately futile

She cries for me.

Not sure why, never certain about anything. That's who I am. Indecisive, weak-minded, incapable of clear-minded judgment. At least when it comes to the dames. The vicious, soul-sucking women of such beauty and elegance that you can't help but fall in love, only to be stabbed in the back by their duplicitous natures. They're all the same. They all want something from you, and the way to attain what they want is always the same. Cruelly. Mercilessly.

But not this one. She cries for me.

What's different about her? She's shedding tears. They never do that. Is she the lone wolf in the pack? Or perhaps it's just a trick. Like I said, these dames will do whatever it takes to get what they want. Water from her eyes is probably just a diversion so she can steal my wallet or sell my expensive hat. It must be a trick. I look deep into her eyes, maybe that will give me some kind of clue.

There's a spark there. Something genuine. She's not one of them. She's different. The smell of her perfume, whatever that scent is enraptures me. It evokes a lustrous temptation, although I hold it back; I'm not an animal. It's comforting, yet exciting. I'm happy with that smell for only a fleeting moment. I look back into her eyes. The tears have stopped, but the piercing radiance of those eyes have, like the perfume, stolen my soul. In this darkness, I can hardly tell what color they are. Green? Brown? Black? It doesn't matter. She cried for me.

Her lips are inching closer. I recoil a bit, not sure what to make of it. I stand up, walk to the corner of the room, leaving her bewildered. I look back fleetingly and see the tears well up in her eyes again. The illumination of the tears, they provide reflection. Her eyes are green. I've always been a sucker for green eyes. And once again, I'm a sucker. When will I learn?

She stands up, extending herself. She's not taller than me, but she's not short either. I turn around and back up into my chair, not taking my eyes off those startling eyes, lit up by the infinite sorrows of her tears. What the hell is she crying about? And why do I care about it so much? It must be because it's so damn different to what I'm used to. This snake is just biding her time before she strikes. I look at her, focus on her body. She's dressed like them, but still looks adorable; unique. I light a cigarette and she coughs as I expel the smoke into her face. Funny, they don't usually do that.

She walks towards the door and turns around, gazing at me so intensely I feel as though a spotlight has been cast upon me. I ease back, in an attempt to fruitlessly make myself seem insignificant to her. She continues to stare, while I look away, cast my eyes on the floor.

This one's different.

She stands there, finally turning back towards the door. She puts her hand on the knob and turns it, opening the door. I look up, a gaze of longing and forgiveness on my face. Sorrow. Repentance. A wide rage of emotions. She looks back, but the intensity of her glare has died down. Her beautiful eyes accentuate that heart-shaped face. She's amazingly beautiful. And she's different. She blows me a kiss and walks out the door, silently closing it behind her.

I sit there, bewildered. I look towards the ceiling, at the slowly rotating fan, at the cracks in my ceiling. I get up, sit down on the bed and stare out the window at the stars, the infinite power of the universe; I behold quite the spectacle. I feel wholly insignificant when stacked against all this. It's remarkable, yet evokes a strange mixture of sadness and elation. Best not to think about it.

I lay down, head on the sweaty pillow, pondering what could have been. She was beautiful. But was she any different? I wasn't sure. Her eyes were beautiful. And yet she seemed completely bloated with venom. I'm never sure about these dames.

Today is going to be a bad day.