The Vampire and The Werewolf

She sits at the window with the blinds closed. The Vampire’s skin was pale. Chocolate hair flows down her snowy shoulders, which acted like curtains to her face. She had very sharp features. Her nose was rather pointed, coming to a curved hook at the end. The Vampire’s chin was prominent as well, broad and jutting.

Her movements were carefree, laid back. The Vampire runs her sharp black manicure over the polished golden jewelry. The midnight fabric of her dress shifts ever so slightly with a slight jingle of the charmed bracelet.

Across the room was a baggy-eyed young man, every so slightly drooping into his blueberry striped hoodie. His skin was tan, but not dark. Light, but not pale. The rings under his hazel orbs were prominent. The Werewolf, I called him, for he looked like he pulled an all-nighter. Even as he yawned and ran his fingers through his soft curls, his deadpan expression held, but handsome he was.

And so The Vampire and The Werewolf sat, silently contradicting each other. The Vampire, with movements of elegance. The Werewolf with ones of exhaustion. In between obnoxious chews of gum, The Vampire cackles. He rubs his eyes and The Werewolf grumbles with his soft boyish rasp.

“How different they are.” I write.

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