He waited, cold on the street corner, for someone to open the door to her building, for someone to open the door and let him in, let him in so the dance could begin.
“Can I help?” he asked a pale skinned woman, as she juggled shopping bags and struggled with the door.
“Thanks,” she said, letting him take the door.
Smiling, he let himself in behind her.
This close, the need twisted around his stomach like a hungry fist, pulled at his guts like sickness. He climbed the stairs in the grip of it, tasting her smell on the air, knowing it was her the need cried out for, knowing that she could at least bring an end to his hunger.
5a.
He knocked once and waited, running a hand across his cheek, feeling out the deep wounds where his flesh was failing, where the need was killing this body again. Behind the door, he heard the purposeful bustle of footsteps and out-of-tune humming as the guard chain was slipped into place.
The door cracked open.
“Yes?” Ashley, his Ashley... no.. no... the little Indian’s Ashley... asked through the four inch crack.
“Miss Powell?” he asked, a confident, antiseptic smile slipping easily over his crumbling features.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“I sincerely hope so, Miss Powell, almost as much as I hope to help you.” His voice dripped with too-sweet honey. “My name is Lamenzo, Carlos Lamenzo.” He held out a hand to be shaken.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Lamenzo?” she asked, ignoring his outstretched hand.
“I’m a salesman, Miss Powell, but,” he purred, “before you slam the door I think you ought to hear what it is I am selling, don’t you?” She didn’t move. “Heaven,” he crooned. “That’s my product. I’m selling tickets to heaven. Now, you can’t refuse an offer like that, can you?”
“Sounds... delightful,” she replied. “Perhaps some other life.”
“Your loss,” he said as she closed the door on him.