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Le Petite Chanson-Noir

It was such a cliche, I meet a mysterious woman in a seedy bar, she accepts my offer of a drink and my small advances, until many drinks and several hours later we stand together in the mouth of the small, dirty alley sharing a warm embrace.

I can smell her perfume and the bourbon on her breath as I lean in for another passionate kiss. We've been here for at least half an hour, and one of us should suggest retiring together to somebody's apartment or hotel room.

I hesitate to speak. My mouth is occupied. But that's not it. Her name has slipped away in the cloud of bourbon that's surrounding the inner folds of my brain. Was it Nancy or Heloise? No, something more modern like Britney or Madison? That's not it either.

We end our kiss and I lean into her body, my face nuzzling the side of her neck as I drunkenly struggle for words. What was her damned name? She hugs me tightly and it heightens my frustration as I again try to remember her name.

Suddenly, it comes to me. Linda. That's right, pretty Linda, and just as suddenly I feel the icepick thrust into the back of my neck. Pain and shock explode in my head as the tip of the ice pick makes its way steadily through the tissue and bone of my neck, finally poking its way out of the front of my throat, and I begin to fall, sliding noiselessly down the front of her coat.

Definitely a cliche.

Comments

Dot Dwyer said…
Aw Jeese ! Finding a turtleneck to cover that wound is going to be a bitch !
October 7, 2008 at 11:30 PM
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