Two lips alienated from each other. One Cupid's bow perpendicularly aligned to perfect taintless teeth. He smiles, and her heart, dancing to the sound of a slightly skipped beat, smiles with him. The room, darker than the night surrounding them, lights up. The six candles flicker. The world as she knew it, gone.
Oblivious to the spinning scenery around them, the back-and-forth smiling ritual continues. He slowly approaches. Her feet glued to the earthquake beneath her. Words do not even matter at this point. In this case, and only because this is an exception, words are merely an accessory. One we can all do without.
What happens next is open to the imagination, biased and prone to the typical fairytale disaster. The smiling prince is dead, and the smiling princess is, well, screwed. The end.
And if you were looking for an alternative ending, one without any pathetic pitfalls, too bad. That indestructible ship sailed and sunk a long time ago. And unlike popular belief, people did not survive.
In the meantime, the (fake) smiling ritual contracts are renewed. Signing off on those which aren't ( ), is the new Titanic of the century.