She grabs Vaseline jelly from her bag and runs it so gingerly on her lower lip. Your heart drools. You hold breath in anticipation for the same on her upper lip, it doesn’t go your way, odds never do. Instead, she smacks her lips together and parts them in pops, an act more sensual. The fragrance of her perfume subtly lingers around. A whiff from her hair beckons at your nasals as she leans over; a blend of coconut oil and something saccharine. Your handkerchief is on standby on the off chance that your bristle sinuses revolt, like they always do when foreign scents permeate the air. They didn’t, she was imposing even to them. They kissed her ring and watched in awe. Or rather in intimidation, feeling small that this woman stopped their vile. You are glad, sneezing on a woman’s face isn’t the kind of impression anyone would want to leave. Not after a bang of a date.
“Are you a serial killer?” she asks tongue-in-cheek.
“Yes I am, but I don’t kill on weekends,” you retort.
She titters. That’s a score, right? That you made her laugh. This is an absolute progressive leap towards her heart, shout out to your inherent humor. And what’s better than humor – requited humor. An archaic vinyl player passed down to you by an uncle stares at you. You haven’t used it much, poor old record. It’s so forlorn sitting in the corner, feeling invincible from disregard. Hurting inside every time music rings from the main stereo. It wonders what it did to deserve that kind of treatment, sorry it’s nothing personal. She gleans empathy from you, so you give her a shot – the vinyl player not the lady. Moreover, what’s more romantic than a vinyl record on some RnB-Funk-Pop fusion.
Could you be the most beautiful girl in the world? It’s plain to see you’re the reason that God made a girl🎶…
Prince’s seamless vocals on The Most Beautiful Girl In the World spill through the confines of the walls. You can never go wrong with Prince. He can be played anywhere. She grins at the music; a coy grin that doesn’t want to give too much. She wants to leave more to imagination, this cryptic girl. You’re on a quest to discover more about her. You smile back, because, ripple effect. She extends her hand out. As If to say ‘may I have this dance?’ Of course, she can have the dance. She can have your heart. Body. Soul. She can have the universe if she wants to. She’s a pretty damsel, they get away with everything. A trail of broken hearts reel in agony along their course, hurt yet still pleading for second chances. Chances they would never get, classic Stockholm syndrome. You might be the next, but before it gets there you’re going to have a blast of time. You can dance, there’s a contingency though. The type of dance you could pull off would make Prince turn in his grave. You take her hand and wing it. In a fortunate twist of fate, things fall into place, dances come with flair. Prince lies still.
“No, seriously, are you a serial killer, how can a man’s house be this neat?” she whispers in your ear.
There’s something about the whisper that melts you, like ice-cream in the sun. It mellows you up. Shivers hurtle down your blood stream. Strands of hair rise. Goosebumps pop on your skin. The cadence of her voice beget a chain of reactions within you. She could whisper something gory like ‘blood on platter’ and it’d sound armorous. She realizes her power and boy isn’t she using it.
You return, “My tidiness precedes me.” She prods you away playfully. “Talking about neat, would you like some whiskey?”
She nods avidly, as if she had been waiting for those words. You shuffle to the home bar and whip a bottle and two miniature glasses. She flashes the first shot in a batt of an eye lid, grimaces and shakes her head. That’s how you know it’s nice – the whiskey, when someone shakes their head to combat the bitterness. You hurl two shots down your throat in quick succession. Her phone rings but she flips it. She doesn’t want intrusion, another score, because an unbothered girl won’t care for shit. She will grab her phone in a knee jerk to vilify you in her group chat. A stream of invectives will be thrown at you as you think of how the night will pan out with her, it will not. All this while, a feature phone remains clasped in her palms. There’s something cryptic about feature phones; they look like they hold secrets that could topple a government. She pours two more shots that you both drink, casually this time.
Time is almost clocking midnight. She’s so not leaving now. Her hand bag probably has all the paraphernalia a sleepover demands, maybe more. You can never tell for certain what’s in a lady’s bag. She could pull a whole other bag from it. You shouldn’t be startled if she pulls out an iron box. She’s staying, that’s for sure. You excuse yourself and walk to the washroom for a leak, your glass left sitting on the table next to her phone.
She doesn’t talk much this one. Her words are snappy, like dry twigs. She breaks words in small pieces for you to perceive. In between she sprinkles her knack for dark humor. You don’t talk much either but unlike her, your words are disjointed. Very rickety with granules of nervousness, compounded with akward bouts of silence. Her eyes are on the Tv. You are seated beside her, trying to kill the distance between you two. She’s a world away yet just less than half a meter. Perhaps the liquor will make you find a way, so you shove the drink down your throat. It does the job for you and for her too. You’re so close. Taking copious breaths of her scent. A little closer and you will be wearing her skin. It kicks in, it tells you to dance – the alcohol. With it comes some chutzpah. Attempts to stay on your feet are vain, legs fail you and your face kisses the floor. You exert to stand again, but the floor isn’t done with you. It yanks you back down. You’re woozy, had a little too much. You fade in and out of conscience. Your speech slurs, drags – soon – its gibberish. At some point you hear indistinct male voices and a shadow creeping over you and out you go.
Headache throbs in your head. This isn’t the morning you had painted the day night before. It was supposed to begin with her making an omelette in the kitchen. You gaze around the house, still on the floor. She had left. Everything was intact. You prop yourself against the table. A sharp pain stings from your left side. You lift your shirt up, a bloodied bandage is patched just above your pelvis. Underneath the dressing, runs threads of stitches and more pain for the eye. You’re on a spin, trying to make fact of what has happened because this isn’t a hospital. The stark reality rains on you in torrents, how could she? Your drink had been spiked when you walked to the washroom. This is why she was so exuberant on the whiskey offer. A literal part of you gone, without consent. Your kidney on its way to be sold. Someone somewhere will drab his fingers and call to seal the deal, on a feature phone