Word count: 190

He thinks of her in black and white film. A beautiful girl, a smoky room, darkness and fog outside, the alleys of Paris dimly lit by flickering lamps. Ashes from a cigarette litter the floor and her eyes are rimmed with kohl. Her hair is short and dark and her dress clings in the right places and skates right over her slender form just where it's supposed to.

She exhales and the illusion fades away.

"I don't believe in love," she tells him and he can imagine her, wrapped in mink and diamonds, simpering or smoldering or whatever it is that beautiful girls with dark eyes and hair and hearts do.

"Of course you don't," he responds and he knows only two things: she never will and he'll never stop trying to change her mind.

She grips his hand for the briefest minute, a silent apology for being the way she is, and he thinks she might actually understand what she's doing to him but she lets go far too soon and he realizes she has no clue. She might not believe in love, but he's fallen hopelessly for her.