She saw the night and it was hers. She stared into the corners of the black and every sweeping seam of it was hers. Flashing glares into shadows that shrank, she smiled, and licked her teeth, waiting for a figure to approach, and then, turning, spurn it for something better or worse. There were no words in the dark, no thoughts of anything other than the black glory she was wrapped in, and every inch of it sent beams out into the night. She saw a figure emerge in the lights she imagined for herself and smiled wider, intent on little and much all at once. Her stare was cold and bright and hard, diamond true and blank as mist. You could see everything and nothing in it depending on what you chose, but the only truth that emerged from it was that which was known to her. There was no need, no desire, no sex, no love, no passion, nothing that could be so tidily laced into letters and swept into tick boxes of want. She wanted what was known to her, what the voice in the centre of her mind cooingly agreed upon as next. So she took it. She swept the figure down with her stare, laid it down and fucked it. She ran the body along hers and measured it with her breath, kissing it with bites and leaving nothing behind but the cold of the night air. She took it into herself and used it, discarding it, panting and exhausted. She turned her gaze onto the night, and moved on.