Hushed Willows Pray that Hell or Heaven lets you in

Am I a terrible person for forgetting Tiffany is mine.. . . ....

The softest of whispers crept to his ears and startled him; enough so that he sucked back a breath and with it, some snot. This collected at the back of his throat and resulted in a moment of dissonance as he began to cough and choke - but it did not last. The man composed himself (through dripping eyes and leaking nostrils) enough to look upon the radiant creature as she found him; he could not help but trace his gaze across her eyes: one the color of a moody sunset sky, the other argent and pale, but both equally lovely.

How fortuitous! How fortunate! Oh, he could weep anew over this discovery - this beauty, blessing him with her presence. She was like the fey of the old stories. A faded coat with striking darkness contrasted. Was she good, or was she evil? An awful thought from an awful man! He recited to himself - for how dare Tiffany think anything was amiss when someone so sweet of face and soft of voice would come to his aid? He was enthralled. And good thing, too - else he might have opened his mouth and made more of a fool of himself.

Alas, he realized he had been silent in his regard of her, and began to bumble over an explanation:

Oh-- sw-sweet fay -- mistress, thou art kind to worry after me. He did not know what to say, or what to do! Was she here to tempt him? She was doing a fine job whether it was intentional or not. Was she a figment of his lonely heart, a compulsion produced in the manner of a winter mirage? He could not tell, for she was too fine to look upon for long - and soon he was staring at the dirt and sniffling once more.