3.12

Kassia hated his smile, actually hated it. He walked into the bar every night and sidled up to another woman with that same face, as though it were painted on and not thin motile flesh over a demented skull. Sometimes it was her friends, sometimes girls she'd never met other than to pass them a Long Island Ice Tea across the countertop. And for some reason, it seemed to work, this face. Most of the women were regulars--they had to know him. They had to have made the same connections Kassia had made, seen the same pattern, and yet he consistently rounded second base in the dark booths in the back.

Sultan of Smarm.
Crown prince of Corny.
Grand duke of Trying too hard.
Kassia hated his smile for what it meant, and maybe because he never thought to smile at her.