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She looks the part.
In the trifold mirror she points a gun at herself in triplicate.
He coughs.
Time to go.
-In a safehouse twenty minutes before they synch their watches
When she stands above him at his head he can see his own reflection in the shoes she’s shined the night before. She drops a cigarette next to his ear and grinds it out under her unblemished sole, leather creasing.
He tells her to wipe her feet off before she tracks blood inside, too relaxed to move after eating his fill.
She toes off the shoes and kicks them behind her, barely missing his head.
-After the job inside a warehouse off the highway in the desert at night
There’s a dream he has of her stepping on him, a heel grinding against an entry wound, the soles dyed red.
-Later, before he wakes up with a stomachache
He yanks and the gaudy thing comes away in his hand.
Only a clip on, he’s disappointed.
“Hey!” she cries out.
“This is fucking atrocious.”
“You know you love it,” she answers, reclaiming her third eye tie from the trash bin.
-Before the monthly collection at Jack Knife’s
There’s a part of the pattern that would match her real eyes if he covered them with it.
He imagines her squirming around blindly under the bulk of him.
-Below ground sitting in the King’s seat
The sound is so fast it’s almost slick.
The black leather tight on their fence’s throat.
“Careful,” he warns.
“What?” she asks, loosening her grip on the belt.
“You’ll break the smaller bones if you pull too tight, counterproductive,” he schools her.
-Somewhere before the heat gets hotter
And sometimes he longs for the empty mindedness of suffocation, asphyxiation by force from her small hands.
He holds his breath sometimes, thinking of her simple silver belt buckle.
-In someone else’s made bed, waiting out the daylight
She doesn’t step back far enough to avoid the blood spray.
It stains her from collar to bottom button.
Pollockesque and he wants to lick her collarbone clean.
-Following the unnecessary standoff
The shape of her body under a saturation of red, a murderous wet shirt fantasy, nipples beading through the bleeding.
-In a dream under a red sky he remembers
Her slacks show no sign of what’s under them.
Later through the open stripe of her bedroom door he finds that there is nothing under them.
-A connecting hotel room
It’d take some shaking to dump her out of her pants, some force to rip their seat seam, but easy enough, the stretch of fabric over her ass has already proven distracting enough.
-The next day
The jacket isn’t hers. Too big, lain over her shoulders.
It’s not his either.
It looks bad on her, he thinks.
-The passenger seat, watching her in the rearview
She’d smell like his brother’s cologne.
-A stray thought
She slides in on mismatched socks from the night before.
-The kitchen of the sagging mobile home on the back lot
They’d chafe his hips.
-The breakfast table she’s propped her bare legs up on.
The gloves he’s bought her are warm on his naked skin.
-From across the back seat he’s bleeding onto.
They keep her from feeling what he’s feeling.
-Holding her hand on the stick shift as she grinds the gears.