He had a charming Southern accent and wildly red hair. She was doomed from the start. The minute he walked into the bar, into her life, she knew. She fell, even. Off the stool. But she caught herself on the counter, and no one really noticed.
They slow-danced that night. He had a flair for romance. It was something in the eyes, which smirked as they traced the curves of her face. It was something in the lips, which cast a spell on her with the words they whispered in her ear, the impressions they left in her hair. She almost forgot that they were whirling around to a country song playing on an old jukebox in a dingy tavern. For a moment, she forgot they were anywhere at all.
She took a chance on him, because that's what he was: her chance. Her one chance, perhaps, at believing again. He said, "Trust me." She asked, "How?" He chuckled, and kissed the back of her hand, and he promised, "I will show you all of me."
Somehow, she was sure that he would.
(This is fiction.
I'm a writer. I know the difference between fiction and real life. Or at least, I thought I did.)
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