“… ba[it]ed …”

They saw a once fine woman, the handsomest of souls, slowly decline with the wine and the holes, and the sex baldly exchanged, and the life of great sadness.

And they really, truly did want to do something to help this poor woman out of what was clearly, grandly, tragically her predicament.

And it was clearly meant, too, in some very strange way: the kind of way that death wishes do lead to.

And so they all came together, and configured a plot: and the plot was to make her think a young man across the water in that emerald isle of green was actually, really, in love with her.

And so she started to smarten up and she started to spruce up, and instead of the cheap perfume, it began to be exciting and freshly bubbled salts of posh bah-ah-ath.  And the difference was clear, and the shine in her eyes was enough for everyone to see how very much in love with something she’d become.

And then opportunities left, right and centre began to flood her way.  And it was so exciting to see all this new – but even so, she remembered her young man.

And she returned several times in the autumn of that time to the Ireland he lived in, though so untouchably it seemed.  For although right off, on top of her phone number, she’d given him her email, Facebook, Skype and only God knows what else, in exchange she just received a bald Irish cell, along with a cold Messenger address.  Oh yes, there were promises made assuredly at the beginning that a Skype on this matter or a Skype on another would defo be forthcoming.  But they never emerged, nor ever did take place.

And then they met up again, one uncanny time, and it was brief and so rushed, and she gave him a beautiful trinket, and then felt ambushed as she would, as the young man did run after suddenly busy work out-of-hours, a suddenly busy work he claimed he couldn’t not attend to; or at least that’s what he proclaimed was the ready and real explanation.

And so brutally cut short the meal, and brutally cut short all opportunities for love, she returned empty-handed to the opportunities of another nature, still flooding her way in that way she was unaccustomed to.

And although, one more time, she revisited his Ireland of joy, he was disappeared and silent the whole of the time she spent scouring the streets, and the bars for his sign: his sign of conquering love …

… his sign of honest love.

And that was when she realised her young man had only been bait: in their foolish imaginings and all-too-clever games, they’d constructed a figure of love they’d known she’d fall for, in order that she might start to spruce herself up; in order that she might look to be far more ambitious; in order that she might really want to fuck for love and not for money.

In order that her handsome nature and heart might return from the dark place it had gone.

But the young man being bait, there was clearly a time when the truth would be out, and the young man would be utterly disappeared.  And this was when she slowly realised, ever so slowly, that being the bait he’d always been all this brief time along, she’d never get to see again the object of what had become her very real affections, and desires.

And that’s when she properly realised the tricks they’d played on her.

And that’s when one day she crept back to her room, and gently put an end to it all.

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