She drew me to her, and she yanked the cliché out of my mind: The tired trope of the moth, fluttering aimlessly toward the perilous flickering flame. She was dressed in blue and had painted her nails green. Her hair was blonde. The only red was the glow exposed when she opened her mouth to speak.
"I heard you're quite the fan of rum," she said to me, and before I could answer, a glass of the stuff was passed to me.