I never realized how red her lipstick was until the night I saw her standing over that poor chump laying on the floor in a slowly spreading pool of his own blood.

Most of the room seemed to be covered in red. Deep, expensive, Ferrari red splattering the ceiling and running down the walls. Very red. But her lipstick was redder.

Those reddest of red lips curled into a cryptic, asymmetrical half smile/half smirk that betrays the turning of wheels - certainly not spinning in the direction one might prefer. I knew I was in love.

77 El Deora
Oblique Americana: a verbis ad verbera