Enchanté

She was a wildcard, he realized. Unpredictable and destructive, yet exciting and enticing. See, she had this way about her. It was one that spoke of mystery. Of champagne and red lipstick and good times.  It made her the kind of woman men went to war for. She was dangerous,and he knew that-- holding more power and charm in one red fingernail than most women could in the entirety of their existence. But lord if he wasn’t ready for war. She was...she was a whirlwind of gold and blue and spices and songs. She was art, but she was no Mona Lisa. She was flowers and she was light and she was stars in an endless night. She was the feeling of warm breath, a whisper in his ear and that look in those eyes, like someone had added watercolor to the ocean during a storm. She was rain and perfume and shadows and whiskey. She was the very definition of intoxicating.

Enchanté.

He’d said it when they met. He’d meant it, too. Enchanted. And he was. It wasn’t some pleasantry, it wasn’t some banal attempt to seek an invitation into her world of secrets and surreptitious smiles for a night, it was the most honest, true thing he could summon to say to a truly astounding woman after years of utilizing the bare minimum of his charm to satisfy those that he was expected to use his smirks and seductions on. And she’d cocked an eyebrow, looked him up and down, and told him if he wanted to go to a real party to meet her downstairs in fifteen minutes, standing just close enough he could get a hint of her perfume. Just close enough for whatever spell she’d put on him to take effect.

He wished he could say where they’d gone for sure that night, but that’s how the early days were with her--meetings in smoky little places with old music, good liquor, and great dancing that he’d never heard of. He barely remembered what city they were in. London...he thinks. All he knew was she’d handed him some mask, told him to put it on, and dragged him into some masquerade in a bar older than the idea of women like her, and whisked him irrevocably into her world. He’d accepted it, and thus began his dance with the hurricane. It was dangerous, it was unpredictable, it was irresponsible, it was fun. He was in a world of magic and stardust that shattered him like a snowglobe when he had to leave it, his only saving grace being a promise she’d return and a wink as she’d left him as the sun came up, seemingly only a creature that could exist under the magic of the moon.

That was their pattern for a while: her dropping into his life, luring him out of his everyday into her eternity with smiles and dances and dresses that looked like she’d rescued the wind and the stars and they’d decided to stick around to repay their debt and him realizing some eternities only lasted so long and that maybe she was just as unattainable as the wind and the stars that adorned her and resigned himself to that. That maybe he could be alright with this manic pixie dream girl impressing herself on his life and leaving far too soon. He liked to pretend she didn’t affect him, that every word of genius that passed through those lips like scarlet didn’t mesmerize him. He’d always been very good at lying to himself.

And then this earthquake of a woman shook the ground they were standing on.

She’d started dropping in more often, staying longer. She let him see more, let him glimpse the humanity this goddess hid. She was just as enchanting, just as unattainable, just as much the bird that had smashed the cage, she was just there and to her it was normal and she had this affect on him and he was going mad and he just couldn’t stand it. And so he’d broken. He’d called her things. Awful things. He’d called her a wild card. He’d told her she was a bloody queen of hearts that he’d allowed to take him for a jester. He’d accused her of playing with his heart. Of getting him addicted to something he’d never even tried. Of enchanting him. He took those words he’d first used to win her over to him, to speak to him, and he’d twisted them into something ugly, dismissing that look of hurt, of betrayal, of pain that stamped on the blossom of her face and then he’d screamed and begged her to either tell him why she was here and why she couldn’t just leave him alone or to just leave and finally let his poor heart out of its misery.

“I am here, you idiot man,” she had hissed, though he didn’t hear any malice behind it, only worry and something he couldn’t quite place, “because I made the mistake of falling in love with a boy at a party and I decided to wait and see just how long it would take him to realize he’d fallen in love with me, too.”

Oh.

Oh.

OH.

And then it was his turn to be the wild card, his turn to be the white rabbit leading Alice to Wonderland as he swept her up in his arms and kissed her in a way that would have made the screen stars of old proud. And he kissed her again. And again. And again, murmuring apologies in between each kiss for each awful arrow he’d just launched at her heart and her, forgiving him with each breath and apologizing in turn for things he really didn’t think she needed to apologize for, but understanding her and accepting them, recognizing the underlying sentiment all the same. And somewhere in between their kisses and their tears they’d made a promise to each other and come away new, entering into a spring of roses and old-fashioned escapades into worlds unknown. And suddenly life was diamonds.

Monika Blitz was a wildcard. But Oliver James was fantastic at playing the game.