After You Left

You clutched your shining lunch pail, draped your coat over one arm and bent at her still body. Not a flinch as your lips met her creamy skin.  One last look over your shoulder and the door closed. She slept. Her eyes moved slightly right to left, riding the waves of a dream. Her soft skin wrinkled to open her bright baby blues, lashes so long, a touch of darkness underlined them.

I was there from the beginning: your midnight move-in, touch-n-go stay, leaving her for months at a time. Where do you go? I don’t wonder, but a woman left to suffer loneliness…and when you leave her in a glass house, someone will see. They will see her undress, slowly, waiting for anyone to watch, to spy, and perhaps make a move.

I knew who she was, did you? Did you know she liked to be watched; did you know she dressed for me, and undressed?

Her skin shimmers from the glittered, peach scented lotion as she bends over to show just a bit of pink, just a peak of what one could indulge in. I took pleasure in watching her. I wanted her. You never knew how she wanted to be touched—she likes it rough. Your soft kisses bored her and when you made love to her she rolled her eyes. Her guests, when you’re gone, they’d tie her down to that huge, walnut four poster bed you purchased; they slap her and fuck her from behind. She records her love affairs: go to the closet and look in the shoe box marked “Old Running Shoes.”

I love her most when she smiles—her almond-shaped eyes curve and bend, pulling you in, and all I want to do is kiss her. Must be how she got you.

She walks and the whole room follows, her hair flows even without wind and she purposely moves each limb as if being recorded—she knew she was being watched. Her body language invited me. Covering her long legs with those black stockings and clipping the garter, one thigh and then the other, slowly. She reaches for her pill case, and crushes the pills into a perfect line, sometimes two. She pulls the drugs deep into her navel cavity and draws her head back. She hides them in her underwear drawer if you’re curious.

Two years I watched her; two years she dressed for me. I came, again and again.

The thoughts of her leaving are no longer bearable. I won’t let you take her from me.

Her slip was silky, silver and sheer. I ran my hands down her back and she moved in closer: I knew she was mine. Too easy and warm to the touch, so normal. She opened those dreamy eyes of hers and held my gaze. When she froze it was the perfect moment—I pulled my right hand over her mouth, and pushed into her throat with the other. I felt her esophagus crushing, her breath became lighter, and those baby blues popped and reddened from the pressure. I had a sense of power, holding her, knowing I was going to be the last one to enter her, to touch her. I was the last one she would touch, scratch her nails down my back through the denim pullover. Her hands gripped my arm, pleading. This time there is no game: there is a finish line, an end. She struggled at first, hard, thrusting her hips, trying to buck me off. I had her between my legs, pinned down, each knee crouched over her shoulders.

I saw her fear, her willingness before she went limp. Her soft blonde hair fell between my fingers as I massaged her scalp. The blade ran over her skin, splitting it open. Never mind the blood, it’s not from her head. It’s her heart that bled out—how ironic.

You can find that in the freezer.

The rest of her, turned inside out—like she did to me—is all there for you to examine, to see for yourself the whore she was: hidden behind the tulips, the flat shoes, and capri pants.

Will I miss her naked body in the morning sun, pushed out to the open air of your patio? Perhaps.

She took pleasure in many hands, but even more pleasure when she washed them off and greeted you, you unsuspecting and so trusting. Really, I did you a favor.

Look up.

I’m your bad neighbor.