Pink Grapefruit

He hated her.
He hated every single inch of her.

He hated the way she way walked, they way her shoulders were always tensed, they way she raised her eyebrows.

He hated the way she dressed, so different to every other girl, the way she flicked her hair out of her eyes, the way she stretched when she yawned.

He hated her soft, scented lips, her delicately perfumed neck, her stunning smile, her contagious laugh.

Something about her had consumed him for a short while, driven him crazy, been the sole focus of a few weeks of his life.

For those few weeks it was he who could proudly claim her as his, show her off to his friends, kiss those sweet lips, have her head rest upon his chest.

That was all it was really, a few short weeks.

And now he knew that those soft, scented lips would no longer be his to kiss.

His blood ran cold when he though of who would be kissing them now, who would be intoxicated by her scent, who would fall under the spell of her smile, who would be drawn in with her laugh.

He hated the bastard.