Rotten Fish

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She held my hand gently and smiled. Her smile gradually reaching her eyes and showing in her crow's feet. Her green-grey eyes and shock of ginger hair tried their hardest to provide colour on this industrial grey day. I loved that smile; fragile but sexual, sensitive but sensual. It melted a little of my heart every time I saw it. Such beauty deserved a place in a museum or gallery, not in a grimy, side alley among the puddles. She touched my arm and tilted her head. Her eyes flickered as she moved closer to me, our lips brushed, the tips of our tongues touching. Drops of water splashed on the ground around us and rotting fish mixed with her Chanel no 5. The ships’ horns sounded as I lost myself in her. Our kiss passionate yet tender. I could stay like this forever, locked together in this embrace. The wind whipped up the alley, covering my head with her hair. My hand touched her cheek and she let out a gentle moan, lifting one leg off the ground. She broke off and looked at her watch. I held her hand hoping she wouldn't say what I knew she was going to say.
"I've got to go," she smiled.
As our kisses were getting more and more passionate, our time together was getting shorter and shorter.
She put her hand on my face and smiled deep into my eyes. Then she straightened her skirt, tied her hair into a pony tail, turned and clip clopped across the cobbles back to the main road. A ship’s horn blasted and rain rattled up the alley. The Chanel had gone, all I was left with was rotten fish.