THE AIR INSIDE THE car is getting cold. Soon I’ll be able to see my breath in here. I don’t want to run the heater, though, because an idling car on the street draws attention like a screaming kid in a five star restaurant. I’ll have to tough it out.
Time glides by on ice skates, the measured swoosh-swoosh of blade cutting ice matching the heartbeat I hear in my ears. Marilee is entertaining her gentleman friend and I’m out here almost seeing my breath while she heats up the sheets. For some people, the twisted ones, that would be reason enough to kill her. I have higher standards, though. Higher standards and, increasingly, class.
Marilee’s photo is on the seat next to me lying on the sheet of plastic I have thoughtfully covered the seat with, the photo I took when I was auditioning her for the part. I can’t see it now because of the darkness, but I’ve memorized it. Brown hair the shade of oak leaves clinging to the tree in the middle of winter, average features except for an undersized chin. Twinkle wrinkles—the ones at the corners of her eyes when she screws up her face—should be covered with makeup, but in this photo are plain to see. She doesn’t have smile lines, indicating that she probably doesn’t smile much. Unremarkable body, but her tits haven’t given in to gravity yet. They are her best assets, certainly better than those bovine eyes.
The door to Marilee’s cramped frame bungalow opens and disgorges Polyester Guy. P.G. embraces her on the threshold and plants a sloppy one on her lips. I can almost hear the saliva churning from here. There’s something about the way he walks, the easy, confident step of a man who’s comfortable in his body, maybe a former athlete. Could be—the shoulders are still there, and a butt that would look better in a pair of tight jeans than the shapeless pants he’s wearing. I’m pretty sure he looks better with his clothes off than on, and that’s not something you can say about everybody.
She blows him a kiss, and P. G. departs in his Caddy of questionable vintage that resembles an ocean liner. I think he missed appealing to hot chicks with his ride by about thirty years.
I wait longer to make sure everything’s quiet. Marilee’s home is fairly narrow and deep, like a domino turned up on its side. The space between her home and the next is deeply shadowed. With my black, skin-tight, Lycra jersey and tights, I’ll disappear when I get in there. An evil wallflower, that’s me.
I’m not wearing underwear under my outfit. Makes me feel a little wicked. I tried underwear, marching around my house like a little soldier, trying out my new uniform. Got chafed. Now I trust the breathability of the fabric to keep me comfortable. That’s something Marilee won’t have for long. Breathe-ability.
The car windows fog up on the inside, and I rub a small circle clean so I can see the door and a little way down in each direction on the sidewalk. Clear.
I snap on three pairs of latex gloves and pull a ski mask over my head, and move stealthily to the house. There’s an unpleasant smell in the air, garbage cans, some of them open, in front of each house. Tomorrow’s pick-up day. Even muted by the cold, the blend of rotten meat, decaying vegetables, and probably somebody’s dead hamster is enough to send a tremor of revulsion through me.
Mentally I go through my inventory, like in the barn. This time, I’m counting on surprise. A. knife, that’s all I have. The bare-ass minimum.
The shadowed space between the houses is a mouth that swallows me. I slide down the gullet and squeeze myself out into the cluttered rear yard. Understandably, I feel turd-like, but a quick shake and the feeling’s gone.
Marilee is one of those people who prefers a cold bedroom, colder than the rest of her house. I already knew that, of course. I’ve been here before. Her bedroom window is open an inch, inviting in death’s unwarmed breath. As I listen at the window, the ground is unyielding beneath my feet, setting a standard for me. I must not yield, or my goals will never be achieved. The shower’s running. She’s scrubbing away the traces left by P.G. I hope she uses mouthwash, too.
My fingers fit under the open window, and it slides up easily, a break for me. At this point, I’d like to say that I vaulted through the window with the grace of Catwoman, but the truth is I hauled myself up and tumbled into a heap on her scuffed wood floor. I return the window to its original position.
The bathroom door’s open, and I can see steam condensed on the mirror. The smell of sex hangs in the air. It’s too bad there’s a glass shower door instead of a curtain. The urge to rend a shower curtain with a butcher knife, hear the screams, and watch the blood swirl down the drain is nearly overwhelming.