Smoke

She was lithe, beautiful, and moved like she was made of smoke.

She looked at me from the dancefloor, smiled, winked, and vanished.

I ran to the door, but the street was empty. Just a man with a cigarette leaning against the club wall.

“You won’t find her,” he said.

“What?”

“That girl. She’ll be in your dreams. In your head. You’re not the only one, kid. Men are driven mad hunting for her, and none of them ever see her again.”

Bugger that, I thought, and typed ‘eldritch smoke girl’ into Match.com.

We’re going for a drink next Thursday.