Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

fucking sentiment. “So you keep saying.”
“What do you expect me to do here?” she asks, pushing up out of her
seat; she wobbles, off balance for a half second, before gathering herself and
crossing her arms over her chest.
I’m hit with the tangy, sweet pomegranate scent of her shampoo, and I’m
half tempted to draw her into my arms and show her what I should expect of
her, as my new wife.
All the ways I’d worship her tight, perfect body if given the chance. How
I’d drag her to the depths of Hell but convince her she’d gone to Heaven,
using my tongue to write wordless poetry on her sensitive, swollen flesh.
All the ways I’d treat her right, if I could.
If there wasn’t too much for me to lose.
If I thought I could actually love her, and not just use her as a pawn in my
twisted games.
Instead, I settle for what’s safe, because right now that’s more important.
“We can discuss logistics later,” I say, turning to the side and gesturing
toward the exit, hoping she doesn’t notice the way my nostrils flare just at her
proximity.
She gets too close, and suddenly I feel like I’ve ingested the sweetest,
deadliest poison.
“First, I want to show you something.”