am·a·to·ry [ámmə tàwree] adj - associated with love: relating to, involving, expressing, or typical of physical love
Leaning forward, her lips touched mine and I kissed her, but I wanted to spit in her mouth. I wasn’t impressed by her in her tight red dress, her perfect make-up, her high heels with leather straps--not anymore. Nor was she impressed by me, but she was well aware of her alluring presence and the thoughts that it could inspire--she was a little temptress. She stood close enough that I had to stare down into her face, which beamed up at me though I knew her intentions were full of deceit and resentment. I could smell menthol cigarettes and mint-flavored gum on her breath. She smiled and I knew it was all aesthetics.
I am not a fool… Five days ago we had been screaming at each other, inches away from each others faces, miles away from the euphoria of our courtship. Just a month before that we had been engaged with every intention of spending life in each others arms, for better or worse, ‘til death do we part, but things changed quickly and our life together became blood-stained and worn thin. This amatory gesture was just another way for her to sink my skip-jack heart into the ocean of my insides, and it would worked.
She pulled away. “I guess I’ll see you around sometime.”
“That’s it? You came all the way here to kiss me once and leave?” I felt myself falling for the trap--able to recognize the danger, unable to step out of it’s way. I was like a moth flying into a light bulb: repeatedly bashing my head against the brightest thing around. I braced myself for the punch line of this sick joke, which she delivered with the prowess of a heart-breaker...
“It’s just a goodbye thing.”