Lana Lang

"Love makes hunters of us all."

There are nights when she is restless, when the routine of the day leaves her parched. There is nothing in the warm tones of her opulent dwelling to fill in the cracks; not the art, not her husband, not even her infant daughter who knows nothing of her but milk and need and the comforting familiarity. It's all so empty, so arid to her, and she can't put her finger on why.

And so, she drives. She drives until she finds herself in Metropolis. Her feet take her where they always do, to a club, and she stays until she finds a man. He's the same every time: dark hair, well-built, and tall enough that he has to stoop down to kiss her. Their kisses lead them elsewhere, whether to hotel, her car, or even just the closest place secluded enough to lose themselves in each other.

As soon as it's over, she drives home again.

She's not satisfied, but it's enough.