Jeremiah

A dark sunset, like a dead artist's work, stretched across the sky. You stood on the balcony, leaning against the railing, breathing in the chill winter air. Behind you, you could hear the murmur of guests' voices, but, tired of the crowd and eager to rest, you didn't notice someone approaching you. Turning your head, you saw good old Jeremy—the only one who seemed to accept you for who you were.

"Hello," he said tenderly, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. You didn't even know why he smoked only in your presence.

"Hey," you chuckled cheerfully, looking at Jeremy's smiling face. The patch over his eye hid the wound he'd received after a recent mission with the undead.

"Does it hurt a lot?" you asked quietly, adjusting your red hair. He laughed and looked up at the sky.

"No... It doesn't hurt anymore," he said, almost in a whisper. You smiled, and he narrowed his eyes, as if only with you all the pain retreated.

"Your hair is all tousled by the wind," he muttered, nodding at you. Reaching out, he smoothed back your fire-red hair. There was a slight silence, and then he exhaled another puff of smoke, leaned down and touched his lips to yours.