Die Another Day

An intriguing yet familiar looking man enters the nightclub.
Debonair is how we would describe him. Dark hair, chiseled features,
alert piercing eyes. Mischievous too wouldn't you say?

We watch as he leans on the bar - orders a drink with almost a sideways
glance. 'Martini - shaken not stirred.' We've heard his voice
before.

A glance at his watch, at the crowd, then through them right at you.
You have trouble holding his gaze. We might say you even flutter your
lashes - although more with nerves than flirtation. It works
though.

As he walks toward you now with purpose we remember his name. Bond,
James Bond. Miraculously - although perhaps not considering who he is,
he now holds two Martinis and passes one to you - gazing intently
watching you melt a little with eyelashes still a flutter.

Ssh, you say, as he is about to speak. You take a sip and we know this
is an intake of courage. Then with a breath your press your lips to his
and you are locked in a kiss worthy of Hollywood lights.

As you draw back and he is standing there, spluttering melting, we can
see he is now under YOUR spell. His charm is gone, his strength and
debonair appeal, all gone as we now see him as just a man. Needy,
dressed up, the suit doesn't even really fit properly.
Damn! You realise - you just kissed an actor.