Murder: A Love Story (Chapters 1-3)

1.
         Ms. Wilson was nothing less than exquisite tonight. In her fashionable attire of a nestle yellow dress, with matching shoes and bracelet, and some circular gold earrings to put the cherry on top, this made for a entirely adequate date. Sure, I’ve seen prettier. But this one had a taste in her; a kind of passion of elegancy. She would only vulture over the kind of men who satisfied her quota, which was a very hard thing to achieve. And I had conquered it, as I have with many women in my time.
         “So tell me, Mark, what do you do for a living?”
         She has that genuine smile of interest. But I can see beneath her lipstick and eye shadow that she is just dragging out the foreplay. Underneath she wants to skip straight to the covers.
         “I’m an accountant.”
         I smile behind my fake black thick-rimmed glasses, which are made of cheap plastic, and my gelled black slick hair tucked neatly behind my ears. I hadn't really planned out my career; poor planning on my part. Accountant was a good choice; quick thinking. It helps me come off as a stable person to her, which I am at most times of the day.
         “Oh? Must be an exciting venue,” she jokes, giving a thin smile towards the end. I chuckle and stab at my salad.
         “I suppose. I don’t know, it just seems natural to me. Crunching numbers, having a system, being in control of what’s happening around me. I guess I like that in life.”
         She smiled, seeming interested. Good, that will take away this awkward tingle that grows in the first ten minutes you meet a person. Well, I suppose when you actually meet the person, not the three days you spent previous behind a camera lens or binoculars. Not when you’re stalking her every move, watching that face go from emotion to emotion, like a see saw. Watching her walk, talk, eat, sleep, everything I need to know. This is the interesting part of getting to know somebody. The rest is just foreplay.

2.
         I finish my salad and politely ate half of my steak. Medium rare, just the perfect edge between that sweet savory meat with the juicy bit at the end; perfectly mixed to make the whole thing just come together.
         “So what do you do?” I ask.
         “Oh, I’m a elementary teacher at Simpson Elementary!”
         “And how did you get that excellent job at that fine institution?” I joked back. She laughed. This was going smoothly.
         I paid for the meal, $42.72. I paid with a fifty dollar bill. Signed the paycheck in an indistinguishable signature, smiled at the waiter and left. We walked outside onto the concrete. My shoes spattered as I walked. The aftermath of a light April night drizzle.
         “Do you want to have some wine at my place?” I ask, smiling.
         She smiles back. I can see the lust beneath her eyes. The passion. This wasn’t a date. This was a sex-driven craze; dying to get at the penetration of a lonely heart to ease the pain of this long and grueling life we live. But this wasn’t necessarily something that bothered me.
         
         I drove her home in a car I had stolen from a dealership in Minneapolis yesterday. A black Toyota, with excellent gas mileage. After a car wash and a change in license plates, it didn’t stand out. Just an average 23 year old man with his drunk and horny date driving back to his apartment to fuck her.
I don’t take women out on dates in the same car twice. I spread them out; make it all look drastically different. The key to this game is not to get spotted. For me this was something I was extremely good at. I had clothes that I had bought the day before at a second hand store in town, and a even better fabricated background history, including my name, the most important part to not getting caught.
         We pulled into the garage of my mid-2000 style house, painted white, which didn’t stand out either. I closed the garage door and smiled at her. She was already starting to get drunk, the lust was growing in her eyes.
         “Come on, it’s warm inside.”

3.
         She just laughs, and opens the car door. I help her into the house. It’s laid out nicely, the 42-inch screen mounted perfectly in alignment with the couch. I poured some wine, and after a couple glasses we headed into the bedroom. She started to pull on my shirt, trying to get it off. Soon her dress was off, as well as her bra. She smiled and laid back on the bed. I crawled up on top of her, kissing the left side of her neck. She makes a soft moan and starts to pull my hair. My hand reaches down into her panties and I find my way inside her. The moan grows louder. She can’t wait.
         She started to slow down, started to get tired. The drugs I had put in her wine were kicking in now. I took my hand away from her and reached below the bed.
         She laughed loudly. “What are you getting? One of your toys?” She giggled. Couldn’t stop giggling. It was really starting to irritate me. It was pissing me off. What is it about these fake bitches who just get fucking wasted and just want to get laid? It's revolting.
         I slid the blade directly into her lung, right below her breast. Her sexual moans turned into harsh rasps, but the drugs were beginning to take effect. Her pulse started to slow down, breathing turning to rasping, blood slowly dripping from her nose. And then she was gone.