She was cold to the touch. I sat next to her at the bar and when I touched her arm to make a point about something she felt like a corpse. Her skin didn’t give when I lightly poked one of my stitched-up fingers on it. I looked at her, then, looked into her eyes as she looked into mine. She wasn’t dead, obviously. Her eyes were wide open and moving in their sockets, she was looking at me, I could see she was thinking something, but what I couldn’t tell. We ordered another round and she talked more. I listened. Her voice was becoming raspy from the alcohol.
I want out of here, she said, as if something had frightened her. I wondered if it was me. I know I can come off as scary to most but something in her eyes, her voice said otherwise. Besides, we had been at the bar for nearly three hours together. If I was scary at all I’m sure she would have left right off.
Your place, she said. I liked that about her, her assertiveness. I paid the tab and we left.
When she got in my car she smiled.
I like long black cars, she said. Are you a good driver?
I nodded then sped off. She smiled again. I noticed her in my side vision, which was better than most, but then again I’m not like most. Not at all.
It didn’t take long to get home. We got inside and she stood in the middle of the room. She looked like a queen ready for her coronation. Her hair was black but what I liked best was the white section in the middle of it. I stepped toward her, my large shoes plodding on the hardwood, then stopped a foot away. She looked up at me, all seven feet of me, and gave me a gaze with those eyes again, then reached up and touched my neck. Her skin still so cold as she fondled one of my bolts.
Like that? she spoke, her voice back to something less raspy. I nodded and lifted her from the floor. My grunts seemed to excite her.
She knew it was the worst thing she could ever tell me.
By Jeff Callico