She sat in her chair. She was at her table. It was the table in the back corner of the coffee shop. Everyday she sat there, ordered a quad espresso with half and half, and sat. She would sit for hours, running her delicate hand through her short black hair. Every so often a guy would come up, ask to sit down and throw up some horrid, trite come-on line. Yes, it hurt when she fell from heaven. No, she wasn't tired from running through their minds. And no, she didn't have mirrors on her shoes because they didn't have a chance at seeing themselves in her pants. Then, it happened. He swaggered into the café and sat down at her table without asking. He looked her up and down and stared into her eyes for a moment. His dark eyes spellbound her. His cut short hair, quiet demeanor, and beatnik clothes all bled with mystery and sensuality. He asked her what she wanted. "Something different," she answered. He grabbed her hand, and pulled her out of her chair. He threw a twenty on the table and tugged at her. She blindly followed him out of the café, into the street, into a quiet car ride, into his apartment. He lifted her into his arms and gently placed her on his bed. The sheets smelled like cloves. He told her to be ready when he got back from the other room. There was no reason she took her clothes off and slid into the bed. The sheets felt like silk against her soft supple skin. He returned, standing in the doorway in a smoking jacket and nothing else. He had a trim athletic build that made her swoon. He stood there, for what seemed like an eternity, slowly taking deep drags off an aromatic cigarette. The smoke cascaded down his face and over his chest with every relished exhale. He strolled towards the bed confidently. Her heart trip hammered in her chest. It felt like a taiko drum. He smiled a sly, pencil thin smile and slid under the sheets with her. His skin as white hot against hers. He pulled her to him, kissing her deeply. She panted softly as he kissed behind her ears, down her neck, and to her chest. He lifted his head up and their eyes locked for a moment. She nodded slightly, encouraging his advances. His lips parted to show a toothy grin. He licked her above her heart. She started as she felt a small sharp pain. She tried to look down at him, tried to turn her body away, but found she couldn't move. Her eyes grew wide as the pain intensified. Her breath came in jagged bursts instead of the pleasurable panting from before. He moved back up her body, his lips glistening blood red as he licked them with a razorblade tongue. He said he wanted to be inside her. And with that, her back arched violently as he plunged his well-manicured hand in her chest and started to pull. As gently as he could, he tore out her heart. His hand came up to show her his newfound treasure. The crimson gore dripped from his fingertips on to the pristine sheets next to her head. Hot salty tears came from her eyes like dead leaves in a fall bluster, staining the pillowcase. He stared into her eyes, hefted the red, dripping lump to his mouth, and smiled. She watched in silent horror as he took a bite of her heart as if it was an apple. She couldn't help but stare as the "juice" ran down his chin. She weakly twisted her head in protest as the blood dripped down on to her face, hot and thick. He finished chewing the muscular mess and smiled a bloodstained smirk at her. "You wanted something different, right?" She shook her head as new tears rushed down her cheeks from eyes squeezed shut. "Don't worry, love. You're not going to die. Yet," he said laughing and sending a thin spray of spit and crimson out of his mouth.