Her Eyes (Or Untitled)

My eyes trace the same curves over and over, like paper never truly absorbing ink. Gentle folds of skin stand in contrast to stark bone.

She had been so … welcoming, so polite.

“Yes doctor, please, come in. A drink? Food? Of course, anything for you.”

Though she had nothing to give in the end, a couple of blackened lungs, a spoiled liver.

Her eyes, crystalline blue, I would have taken those.

Why did she have to turn it the way she did? It shouldn’t have come to those utterances of hers.

“I think you’re mistaken. I don’t think so. No.”

And in this world, a woman of her standard owning a gun?

My soul will rest easy, hers I’m not sure.

I clean my tools meticulously, disposing of the browning apple core, used condom and bloodied cloths in her make shift fire pit.

I collect the money, laid on her poorly made wooden table … beforehand … in plain sight.

The first sign of trouble.

“Of course I trust you doctor.”

Outside the madam keeps an eye on rowdy drunks. I pass her a handful of crumpled bills.

“Made a bit of a mess, might let her sleep.”

She tucks them away, her eyes never straying from the stumbling fools, never truly catching sight of me.

They never do.

I wrote this as homework for a writer’s meeting I went to. I’m not sure yet where it’s going or if it can go anywhere else. I imagine this character has a bit of wanderlust though.