On a windy cold night, she wrapped herself in the warmth of your clothes. Smells mingled and thoughts dissolved in each other as you watched the lights blink on and off in the city far away.
Was that a neck nuzzled? Some hair ruffled? A few fingers laced? Eyes welling?
Like the haunting notes of primitive flute music that drifted to her in the windy night, you linger on as a feeling, a taste, a sensation, a wall broken, a confession.

How is it that the most noble thoughts are born out of the most evil ways?