The man sat under the street lamp, rain lightly patting down upon his dark hair. It was not kept in a ponytail, and long pieces of hair stuck to his face, then hung down past his shoulders, like the tentacles of an octopus.

His eyes were not visible; all that could be seen was the glare from the glasses perched on his nose. He would be estimated at 20 years of age, but if one had seen into the depths of eyes, anyone would know that he had seen more than any twenty year old.

Men and women walked by, and as time ticked fewer and fewer people passed. Soon, no one came by at all.

The girl was enjoying the night air, and the cold rain that dropped onto her skin. Her hair was in a bun, and a few pieces fell gently into her eyes. She had an absent smile on her face that was there out of habit. Inside she was a writhing maelstrom, nothing but turmoil. She wore sandals that were a pretty shade of pink that matched the summer dress she wore. The rains of the warm season were always the best. She was ambling, with no destination really. No one was out…

Except, that man on that bench. His hair shone in the light cast down from the pole. She glanced in a few directions, and did not see a soul.

She was the cat, and curiosity had yet to kill her. Nothing was better than a mystery or something that was unexpected. She licked her lips subconsciously and walked slowly towards that dark man.

Sitting on the bench boldly next to him, asking an innocent question.

"Hello Mr. Black. Why are you so sad?"

The girl came to him. He had seen her from the corner of his eye, but now she sat next to him. The warmth of another body next to him. He said nothing, but then her sweet voice trickled from her delicate throat. He would not, could not, answer that question. It would be the end if he did.

"What is a young lady, who can barely be eighteen years of age, doing out at such a time on such a night?" His voice was low, calm, and hid what he felt beginning to wake inside of him.

She looked offended. Perhaps she did not enjoy being seen as a child. She almost pouted as she spoke, "I am nineteen, thank you. And I can be out, if I feel like it." Very sassy, indeed.

He looked at her now, turning his head only a small amount. Took her in, examined her features. Pixie like, delicate, and fragile.

The man was condescending. And he looked at her like a stray looks at a scrap. Hungry, violent.

"Since I answered your question, answer mine."

One sleek eyebrow rose, and she stared at the man. She was acting more bold than she normally would, but the maelstrom inside of her was pressing her forward, driving her to keep going. She looked at his hands, and watched them shake as he clenched them together.

A strong hand wrapping painfully tight around her skinny forearm. She didn't flinch, but looked at the shaking hand holding her tightly, then up to the eyes burning behind the cool glass spectacles. "Why am I sad? That is what you want to know?" He began to laugh, but it was the saddest, most pained laugh the girl had ever heard. It stopped abruptly and he looked down at her, his eyes revealing pain, apology, and some type of feral need at the core.

"Its because I can never, ever, stop, no matter how I try."

Hours passed, more people began to walk by, and upon the cold concrete by the bench sat a pretty pink slipper.