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Day glow panties
STRANGER
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SHE LIVES in a brick townhome in a trendy neighborhood in downtown Providence. The lighting fixture above the front door was clearly designed for the light bulb to be easy to change. No problem to reach up with one gloved hand and twist it until lights out.
And I am shrouded in darkness. No can see as I feeler pick inside the lock.
A second later, it snicks, and I slide open the door.
I freeze, listening. The fridge hums, the air conditioner whirs. But otherwise, silence reigns throughout the house.
The air moves with something sweet. Peaches.
No doorbell camera. No security alarm. The lock’s a joke.
I shake my head, standing in the darkness, invisible to passersby, as I tuck my lock kit into my ass pocket and take my first step inside.
A staircase sits on the right, a living area on the left, with a kitchen at the back. A rear exit that leads to the private courtyard I scoped out earlier.
She left a light on for me.
Handy.
Thanks, Mia.
It illuminates the space well.
And what I see... gives me pause. I think I’d expected normal, traditional, based on her photographs, what I know about her, the soft, slightly-awkward banter we exchanged earlier. Safe beige or gray, navy maybe. Classy.
I should have known because of the crazy shit on her registry, but still, it’s so at odds with the personality she’s revealed to me so far.
This is... loud.
The rug is pink. Not the pale pink you see on baby commercials or wedding magazines, but bright stripper pink. The sofa and chairs are piled in those dumb pillows women like, a rainbow cacophony.
The walls are stacked with bright paintings, the tables and shelves are stuffed with books and what my friend Lex calls tchotchkes. A zebra sculpture, a Chinese waving gold cat, picture frames, vases, bowls, clocks... crap fills every space.
So much crap.
It’s the exact opposite of the farm house, with its empty shelves, and scant furniture. It’s not messy or dirty, or overbearing like those hoarders you see on TV, but it’s definitely packed.
I prowl to her purse, tossed lazily across a dining table I can tell she doesn’t use to eat. She uses it to store more of her crap.
I’ve never been in a space like this. It’s like she’s got something from every single place she’s ever been, a tether binding her to this place, this time in her life, weighing her down.
What does she do with all this shit?
I paw through her purse, but there is nothing too interesting inside. I take pictures of all her credit cards, ID, a check. The routing number might come in handy later.
A bulky red ceramic picture frame, the kind kids make in kindergarten, sits on the table next to her purse. Two half hearts. I push the pieces together idly with a gloved-finger, building a picture of this nervous, bubbly, Mia Whitten woman in my mind. Writer, collector... what else? Why take out a hit on this happy fluttery woman?
I move closer to the shelves. There are so many photos it makes my head spin. Smiling people. Laughing people. Old people. Young people. Babies. Happy people. At the beach. In the mountains. In front of the Eiffel Tower, the Taj Mahal, the giant Buddha in Hong Kong, on safari.
Mia is in most of them, that same warm, open smile. As if she’s never been hurt. Not once in her whole entire life.
So much stuff. So many people.
She’s the anti-Stranger.
I seek privacy, she seeks people.
I seek emptiness, she seeks crap to fill it.
Her computer sits in the center of a loud pink desk. The chair looks suspect at best, flimsy with legs like twigs and elaborate carvings in an aggressive blue. I don’t want to risk it snapping under me, so I just lean over it. There’s no password.
Ah, Mia.
Her search history is hilarious, though unsurprising given what she writes, and I take a moment to amuse myself skimming through her latest searches.
Description of a vagina?
What’s so great about anal sex?
Are blue balls real?
The last one makes me laugh silently.
It takes a few minutes to download the software that will allow me to screen share without her knowing.
There’s nothing else to find on her computer.
Nor on this floor.
So, I make my way silently upstairs, placing my feet on the outer edges of the steps to avoid creaks.
There’s a hall bathroom, two bedrooms. I shine a penlight inside. They are also filled with color, packed with paintings, and more books and sculptures and trinkets—this woman’s got more shit than anyone I’ve ever seen. I pity the sad fool who has to help her move at some point.
At the end of the hall is an open door that can only lead to her room.
There’s no light in here and I can’t risk waking her with the torch on my phone, so I wait for my eyes to adjust, breathing in the honey-and-peach smell.
Scant light spills in from the street lamps outside, soft and rosy through sheer drapes.
She’s breathing, soft, steady, even. I listen for a moment to make sure she hasn’t sensed my presence.
This room is no different from the rest, full of hothouse colors so bright even the darkness can’t dilute them beyond recognition. Pink and green wallpaper, pink carpet, a floral bedspread. And the lamps on her bedside tables are—I’m not kidding—gigantic parrots in green, orange and turquoise.
What is with this woman and color?
I creep away from the warm body on the bed and down the short hall to her bathroom. Some evidence of a man in her life is at the second sink, an extra toothbrush and a razor, men’s deodorant. But mostly, this is as much a woman’s world as the rest of her home.
The walk-in closet is a surprise. Based on the rest of the place, I expected it to be full of hippy shit, flowered scarves, annoying belts, loud necklaces, bold shoes, a jewel-box of colors, but it’s the opposite. Mostly white, beige and black, a bit of navy blue. Simple solid colors. The air is thicker with her smell in here, her clothes saturated with it. Not just the sweetness of peaches and honey. More. A deeper smell. The smell of a woman.
A slim drawer holds jewelry, mostly simple gold. A larger drawer houses a kaleidoscope of lacy panties and bras. I pick up a thong—naturally day glow orange between my thumb and forefinger, let it drop back into the drawer.
I’m building a bizarre impression of a woman who shows herself to the world as prim and classy, but inside revels in the bold and the bright. Her place is vibrant just shy of garish, like her underpants. She’s flashy, but only when no one can see. Like the stories she writes in secret.
I leave the closet and cross to her bed, moving slowly so as not to disturb the air around her.
She’s on her back, an arm tossed over her head, the covers loose around her waist, her hair curling across the pillows, lips slightly parted.
Her phone sits on the table beside her, next to one of the bizarre parrot lamps, on a stack of paperback books. Again, no password.
Making my job so easy, Mia. Even a baby would cry if you stole its candy. She doesn’t even offer up that much defense.
It takes me two minutes to activate an app that will allow me to track her movements, and a second that will give me access to all her activity.
I can go now. I’ve done what I came to do, but instead I find myself standing there, staring at her.
My eyes have adjusted to the dark. I can’t see her perfectly, but enough to get a feel for her.
A narrow nose with a slight arch to it, soft brows, pretty lips. The blanket is pulled up to her ribcage. The soft curves of her breasts are visible in the dim light, the shadows of her clavicle, her slender throat, fine jaw. An elegant face.
She makes a noise, a soft hum in her throat and rolls onto her side. But she doesn’t open her eyes, and I feel a moment of regret.
She’d have screamed if she had. She’d have known she wasn’t safe. She might have been prepared. Not enough, but maybe enough to make it at least a challenge.
Tomorrow, I’ll know all her secrets.