Her look was distinctly death
and her legs,
one locked over the other,
seesawed in delicate motion.

He walked in with a stop
and looked her once over:
A doe-eyed 20-something,
with a voice huskier
and sultrier than tobacco smoke.

He knew before she said it
so he silently opened the drawer
and grabbed his Special
without losing eye contact.

In film her hair was black
even though it was a tawny blonde.
Black eyes hid its true
blue-green.

A bloom of gray smog
drifted in front of her face
and she pushed it away
with long snaky fingers.

As the gun sneaked its way
from under her checkered jacket
he gave her a wink
then blew her away.

Her blood blotted red
on a note upon the desk.
It was written on a napkin.

They were onto him now.

Certainly, especially now.

04/29/2016

Posted on 04/29/2016
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