this nodeshell lovingly created by Byzantine, courtesy of Conrad Aiken...
Across the room you see her, in the new dress you bought her just before she left you. It fits her perfectly, bringing every subtle curve, every tiny hint of the underlying form to its fullest beauty. Even in the dim lights of the party, she radiates every wholesome attribute a woman can own. She is indeed, absolutely stunning.
Then you see him. Until now, you had only heard his name, and even then only in passing. If you saw him in a crowd, you'd never know, but in the way he looks at her, and she at him, you know. You know. Instantly your hatred for him boils. You feel your face flush. The man who stole her from you. Your hands clench unconsciously, the nails digging gulleys in your palms. Veins stand out on your neck. Images pass through your mind. Horrible images. Wonderful and evilly thrilling images of what you would like to do to that motherfucker.
But you let it pass. There is nothing that can be done. There will be only the images, not their realization. But still...
There is a ghost of murder in your blood.