“Elisa Day” 

His eyes drank in the punched letters on the crumpled paper. It had a nice ring to it and the name tasted so innocent on his tongue. His thumb swiped over the black ink once more before his hand reached into the deep pocket of his tailored coat, and fished out a small photograph of a young woman. The corner of his lip twitched up in a small smile as he recognized the same shade of the roses that grew down the river, painted on her grinning lips. 

On the first day he left the dimmed streetlights and the darkening night behind. He entered the sultry pub with a bitter aroma of beer and thick smoke glazing over his clothes like syrup. The contrast between the brisk night air and the sticky atmosphere inside the cramped pub made his head spin, so he seated himself on the nearest bar stool. After gulping down half a beer, he spotted her. With hair flowing in tousled waves down to her waist and eyes shining with childish carefreeness, she made herself recklessly noticeable to anyone—especially him. 

The first time his hands found her waist, the fluid notes of La Vie En Rose filled the busy room and swayed their bodies until their hearts were beating in sync. His lips curved themselves devilishly against her locks, both from the irony of the song, but also from her scent that he had grown so fond of over just one night. His stomach had this pleasant buzz and if it was from the alcohol or the beautiful girl in his arms, he had no clue. One thing he was terribly aware of though, was the most wonderful kind of venom prickling through his bloodstream as his fingers grazed her palms, knitting their hands together. 

Looking at her he thought; If all they had was until the song ended. If all they had was until she vanished down the road with her maroon smile and his white lies lingering around her heart. If all they had was until the day she followed him to the roses, then he was okay with what they had. 

On the second day he came with a single red rose and a smile that would've lit up the whole city had it been night. For every two breaths she took, she was lucky to get one out. Because every touch, every glance and every smile left almost imperceptible traces of fire on her skin and heart.  

Somewhere along the slight friction between grazing elbows and burning fingertips, amidst the quick lash adorned glimpses and between the coy twitch of their lips, her heart screamed at her to explore him until he became her truth in it's rawest form. Her hands shook with ache to map out his body and trace the constellations of his birthmarks and freckles until they were etched into her memory. But most of all, she longed for his lips to become her favorite flavor. 

"Do you know where the wild ones grow?" She asked as she laid on the grass. With a nod of his head he asked, “If I show you the roses, will you follow?” 

I'd follow you anywhere, my dear. 

On the third day he took her to the river and he showed her the flowers, so scarlet and free. They reminded him of her; Alluring, guarded and immaculately beautiful. With a burgundy smile and the most wicked pair of eyes she asked, "Have you ever wondered what the roses taste like?" 

And his hands had sworn they wouldn't reach out to touch the soft hair curling around the nape of her neck, but they never were the honest type. His eyes had promised him they wouldn't wander down the slender curve of to her exposed and inviting collarbones, but they had always been liars. His lips assured him they wouldn't touch or leave any marks on her except in the form of words, but they kissed her like they had never known any traces of truth. 

He was a beautiful liar, and she didn't mind being deceived.  

Words floated about within his mind, although unneeded, for his kiss would speak for itself. Their first kiss was everything it shouldn't have been. It was guilt, remorse and shame. He didn't dare trust his ability to speak so he said nothing. Silence may deceive, but it cannot tell lies. 

The wind was light as a thief, stealing every word at the tip of his tongue and whisking them away to only be heard by the summer breeze. And perhaps, it was better that way. He left his sweet signature on her lips. He knew she soon wouldn't feel it, but his mouth would burn with her kiss until there was nothing left of him but ashes. The last thing she heard was a muttered string of words before a shadow cast over her face, blocking her last rays of light. 

"All beauty must die, darling," he whispered. 

With a face freckled by warm crimson, he left the roses behind him, now bloody and wild.

"Go to the river where the wild roses grow. She's there, with lips red like the flower planted between her teeth, you can't miss her. I expect every last cent to be in cash. 

Jongin."