Almost Lucky

From the 13th floor window of the Beverly Wilshire hotel, he watched as the late afternoon smog settled over LA, like clay-white concrete; air so thick it was impossible to imagine that it wouldn’t crush the hearts of everyone caught beneath its mass. Why, he wondered, do we learn the most from the things we shouldn’t do?

Turning now, from the window, and surveying the graying room, he could see that she looked so beautiful as she lie there, asleep, her breathing nearly undetectable, skin white and gleaming, delicate porcelain. That tiny scar neatly drawn across her right wrist, like a seam on a doll’s arm, should have been a clue.

How had he managed to find a woman who was as elegantly damaged as she? Throughout his entire life, he'd always been almost lucky.