Driving back home, Trudy thought, it didn’t take much.
That face, that body. That voice. The freckles on his arms.
A sad story, a sly look.
A deep kiss. A light, glancing touch.
The promise of pleasure and the spectre of a terrible, violent, public death to make it all ridiculous, sad, pointless. Irresistible.
Just these things and the sailing arc of cupid’s arrow and she was done for.
Lost.
Stupid, stricken, sick with love.