Mountebank

"A love potion for the sad girl?" the young man asked.

He was tall and handsome and not at all what she expected when she looked up from the dirty steps, her face streaked with tears. Self-consciously she wiped her cheeks and brushed back her hair. She was normally quite pretty.

"I-I-I don't need a love potion," she whispered. He smiled and took a step closer, peering at her intently. She stood and backed away.

"I suppose you wouldn't," he said suggestively. She wished he weren't so handsome. "Why are you crying then? No troubles with a boy?"

She shook her head.

"You can tell me. I can help."

She eyed him warily. "How could you possibly help?"

He winked. "Love potions aren't the only kind I have."

She considered for a moment, then shook her head again. "They're all hoaxes anyway. You're just a con."

He shrugged, playing the game, playing as if he hadn't noticed her hesitation. She would be willing, he knew. Only the fiercest could resist a chance.

He held out his hand. "Come with me and we'll talk." She pulled back a little more. "You don't have to try anything you don't want," he assured her. "I'll just tell you what I have to offer. What does it hurt to listen?"

She took the bait. Together they strolled off, and he talked quickly -- quickly enough to distract her, but not so quickly that she felt threatened.

What did it hurt to listen? Maybe nothing, he thought with a smirk. Or maybe a lot.