Dying for a Drink

Ambrosia was pale as Lucianus, as pale I was now, but her milk glass skin shined like it had a coating of white phosphorous. A black tatted veil bordered her oval face and followed her glossy jet-black hair down to just below her knees. Her eyes were catlike, vivid green, like a Russian Blue named Pixy I once owned. That was freaky. I just had an urge to cover Ambrosia’s strawberry lips with whip cream and lick it off. I hated whip cream. I liked strawberries dipped in chocolate ice cream.