He almost walked by without seeing her, missing the smell of blood in the water. She sat on a park bench, crying in the pouring rain. Her white sundress, her thick black braid plastered to her tanned skin. Sweet wet shoulders slouching, she held a white shredded bag of wet popcorn. Pigeons left long ago, smart enough to find drier ground.
He stopped and walked back to her. She didn't look up, eyes streaked with mascara like a harlequin. She stared at the pavement. He saw the slope of her clavicles, delicate wrist bones, feet in white sandals and toes painted indigo. Without speaking, he sat next to her on the soaked bench and held his umbrella over her head. The raindrops punched angry little fists against the fabric, trying to jab her. He was her shield.
Twenty minutes passed along with die-hard joggers, two lovers under a rainbow umbrella and cyclist sizzling by on the wet cement. Brad Flynn's eyes slid over the woman. He could see the shadows of her ribs on her chest while she breathed and felt that familiar ache. She would be easy prey. He specialized in the sick, the damaged, angels with broken wings.
A gust of wind blew the rain diagonally. Brad felt her shiver, watched small goose bumps and tiny blond hairs raise in flags of resignation on her brown arms. Without a word, he handed her the umbrella. He stood, took off his trench coat and wrapped her from shoulders to legs. He sat down, taking the umbrella again.
"Thank you," she said. A new tear repelling down her cheek.
"It's nothing," he said, he thought about handing her his handkerchief but decided he liked the tears, "Would you like to find a coffee shop?" She thought for a moment.
"Yes, thank you," she said, standing, and held out her hand, "I'm Winona."
"Brad Cook," he shook her hand, bones like a small bird, he could crush them.
They walked through the park; Brad noticed she deliberately swerved 6 inches to walk through a puddle. The rain seemed to let up when they hit the sidewalks and the shops. It was probably all the awnings.
"Let's stop in here real quick," he said. It was a little women's boutique called "Open and Close". "I'll buy you something dry."
"No way," she said, looking up at him in his huge coat, soaked hair, raccoon eyes.
"Well, I insist and I'm a very determined man," Brad took her elbow and pulled her into the store. Inside, she took off his trench coat, handed it to him and walked to the racks of clothing. Brad watched her shopping behavior; rather than stroking material, she simply checked price tags. A dress fell off the hanger; clothing tends to do that in stores. Rather than leave it on the ground, she bent to pick it up. Her white sundress was still wet and transparent. He saw her tan back and the outline of a deep purple thong. Naughty Winona, he thought, feeling that tightening way low in his belly. She stood up, turned around and looked at him. He returned the gaze. Neither flushed, blushed nor looked away. He breathed a little heavier and there was a buzzing in his ears.
She picked out a black cotton dress and on the way to the dressing room, asked a clerk for hair pins. His cell phone rang. Friends were meeting for drinks tonight.
"Can't," he said, "I found a wounded gazelle."
"You're a sick fuck, man," his friend knew about him, his little form of sadism. He seduced a woman in their group a week after her suicide attempt. Then dumped her.
"Somebody has to cull the herd," Brad said, before ringing off.
When Winona came out of the dressing room, Brad barely recognized her. She wore a plain black sheath, her face was clean and flawless, and her hair was pulled up, pearl earrings showing, a picture of subtle elegance. He wondered if she left the thong on or not. He'd find out. He paid for the dress with a credit card, not looking at the price.
"Thank you, Brad," she said.
"You look amazing. Are you hungry? Do you like Italian? My favorite Italian restaurant is one block down."
"Sure," she said, and he led her out of the boutique, hand on the small of her back. No thong.
The restaurant quieted a few decibels when the striking couple walked to their table. Patrons stopped talking, a fork suspended in the air, a wine glass floated. The exotic princess with gleaming black hair, angular eyes and regal bronzed cheekbones. The man guided her with his hand. Where she was dark, he was light. Tall, white blonde hair, ice blue eyes and sunburned on the cheeks and nose like a boy.
He ordered a bottle of wine. He'd loosen her up, get her story, and turn her into a broken puddle. A little firewater for the squaw, a little consolation cuddling at his place, then he'd use the used. He wondered why it was the broken, the damaged that he found so arousing. Tomorrow he would break her entirely.
"Tell me," he said, pouring her glass 3/4 full.
"Nothing spectacular," Winona said, "I came home early from work and found my fiancé in our bed with another woman." Wow. Brad wondered what the other woman looked like. "I moved here from Washington for him. I don't know a soul. I don't even have my purse with me."
"I'll help you," Brad said, "Cheers." Brad listened to the story but knew the reality was women always go back. He'd be the recipient of her revenge fuck tonight and life would go on.
"Oh, I'm not going back," she said. He looked at her. It wasn't the hurt or the anger talking, she seemed very congruent.
"I'll get you a hotel for tonight," he said.
"Oh no, I couldn't, I couldn't accept that, but thank you."
"Where are you going to sleep? You're more than welcome to come to my place," Brad offered, as if he just thought of it.
"Ummm."
"I only murder prostitutes," he said.
She laughed at his sick joke and Brad got a glimpse of what she really looks like. Sparkling, a white smile that warmed her face. Oops, thought Brad, too happy. He had to turn the conversation around.
"Why do you think he cheated?" He asked. She took a small sip of wine, licked her lips and met his eyes.
"Why would you ask me that?"
"I thought it would be good to get some feelings out." Fuck.
"I don't care why he did it. I'm sure he has excuses, blaming, apologies. He did it, it's over." She picked up her wine glass, swallowed twice. She folded her napkin, "Let's get out of here."
She was messing with his seduction rhythm. He looked for the waitress. She was a good waitress with Waitress ESP and brought the tab right over.
"My flat's not too far. Four minutes. Let me put my coat on you," It swallowed her.
"You are so good and kind and nice," Winona said. There's a saying: 'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.'"
"Why? Are you an angel?"
"Maybe," she said, "Are you?"
"Hardly."
"This is beautiful," she said when he opened the door to his flat. She gravitated to a wall of paintings.
"I like this," she said, "It looks like you buy paintings you like, not pictures you think would look good."
He laughed, "I'm not sure how to take that."
"When did you buy this picture of the lone man standing outside the door?"
"Oh, I was alone, wandering in Europe after graduating."
"This one," Winona pointed, "This oil of the couple doing the tango that looks like a dove taking flight."
"I bought that with my first commission check."
"And this colorful painting of the three people drinking wine at the lake?"
"In France, artist named Dilley. I was with friends, a great time."
"Your paintings tell the story of your life."
"Nobody's ever noticed that before. I never did," he said, "Well, I'll change the sheets on my bed and I'll take the couch."
"No," she said.
"I insist," I insist on fucking you on a bed. He left and returned with boxer shorts, t-shirt, a new boxed toothbrush and a towel. While she was in the bathroom, he put fresh sheets on his bed. She came out and they met awkwardly in the hallway.
"Thank you so much for everything," she said, trying to step around his bulk.
"Is there anything else I can get you? Do you need to call anybody?"
"No, Brad, thank you."
He wrapped his large arms around her, running a hand down her spine. A string of pearls. "I'm going to hop in the shower for a sec," he told her.
The bed was heaven. Winona sprawled in the bed, wiggling her feet in the rich sheets. She looked around the room. A portrait of a beautiful woman in anguish, tears flowing, hands gripping her hair, stared back at her. Winona frowned. Slowly she turned and studied the painting behind the bed. It was a huge oil of a woman in jeans, her head bent, standing at a grave. Her hair curtained her face; it was the posture of a woman broken. Winona stared at the pair of tiny baby shoes that dangled from her index finger.
Brad walked out of the bathroom, toweling his hair. His bedroom door was open. She was gone. He knew without looking that she wasn't in the apartment but he looked anyway. He shrugged. He had work tomorrow. He slid into his clean sheets, turned off the lamp, and masturbated.
He stopped and walked back to her. She didn't look up, eyes streaked with mascara like a harlequin. She stared at the pavement. He saw the slope of her clavicles, delicate wrist bones, feet in white sandals and toes painted indigo. Without speaking, he sat next to her on the soaked bench and held his umbrella over her head. The raindrops punched angry little fists against the fabric, trying to jab her. He was her shield.
Twenty minutes passed along with die-hard joggers, two lovers under a rainbow umbrella and cyclist sizzling by on the wet cement. Brad Flynn's eyes slid over the woman. He could see the shadows of her ribs on her chest while she breathed and felt that familiar ache. She would be easy prey. He specialized in the sick, the damaged, angels with broken wings.
A gust of wind blew the rain diagonally. Brad felt her shiver, watched small goose bumps and tiny blond hairs raise in flags of resignation on her brown arms. Without a word, he handed her the umbrella. He stood, took off his trench coat and wrapped her from shoulders to legs. He sat down, taking the umbrella again.
"Thank you," she said. A new tear repelling down her cheek.
"It's nothing," he said, he thought about handing her his handkerchief but decided he liked the tears, "Would you like to find a coffee shop?" She thought for a moment.
"Yes, thank you," she said, standing, and held out her hand, "I'm Winona."
"Brad Cook," he shook her hand, bones like a small bird, he could crush them.
They walked through the park; Brad noticed she deliberately swerved 6 inches to walk through a puddle. The rain seemed to let up when they hit the sidewalks and the shops. It was probably all the awnings.
"Let's stop in here real quick," he said. It was a little women's boutique called "Open and Close". "I'll buy you something dry."
"No way," she said, looking up at him in his huge coat, soaked hair, raccoon eyes.
"Well, I insist and I'm a very determined man," Brad took her elbow and pulled her into the store. Inside, she took off his trench coat, handed it to him and walked to the racks of clothing. Brad watched her shopping behavior; rather than stroking material, she simply checked price tags. A dress fell off the hanger; clothing tends to do that in stores. Rather than leave it on the ground, she bent to pick it up. Her white sundress was still wet and transparent. He saw her tan back and the outline of a deep purple thong. Naughty Winona, he thought, feeling that tightening way low in his belly. She stood up, turned around and looked at him. He returned the gaze. Neither flushed, blushed nor looked away. He breathed a little heavier and there was a buzzing in his ears.
She picked out a black cotton dress and on the way to the dressing room, asked a clerk for hair pins. His cell phone rang. Friends were meeting for drinks tonight.
"Can't," he said, "I found a wounded gazelle."
"You're a sick fuck, man," his friend knew about him, his little form of sadism. He seduced a woman in their group a week after her suicide attempt. Then dumped her.
"Somebody has to cull the herd," Brad said, before ringing off.
When Winona came out of the dressing room, Brad barely recognized her. She wore a plain black sheath, her face was clean and flawless, and her hair was pulled up, pearl earrings showing, a picture of subtle elegance. He wondered if she left the thong on or not. He'd find out. He paid for the dress with a credit card, not looking at the price.
"Thank you, Brad," she said.
"You look amazing. Are you hungry? Do you like Italian? My favorite Italian restaurant is one block down."
"Sure," she said, and he led her out of the boutique, hand on the small of her back. No thong.
The restaurant quieted a few decibels when the striking couple walked to their table. Patrons stopped talking, a fork suspended in the air, a wine glass floated. The exotic princess with gleaming black hair, angular eyes and regal bronzed cheekbones. The man guided her with his hand. Where she was dark, he was light. Tall, white blonde hair, ice blue eyes and sunburned on the cheeks and nose like a boy.
He ordered a bottle of wine. He'd loosen her up, get her story, and turn her into a broken puddle. A little firewater for the squaw, a little consolation cuddling at his place, then he'd use the used. He wondered why it was the broken, the damaged that he found so arousing. Tomorrow he would break her entirely.
"Tell me," he said, pouring her glass 3/4 full.
"Nothing spectacular," Winona said, "I came home early from work and found my fiancé in our bed with another woman." Wow. Brad wondered what the other woman looked like. "I moved here from Washington for him. I don't know a soul. I don't even have my purse with me."
"I'll help you," Brad said, "Cheers." Brad listened to the story but knew the reality was women always go back. He'd be the recipient of her revenge fuck tonight and life would go on.
"Oh, I'm not going back," she said. He looked at her. It wasn't the hurt or the anger talking, she seemed very congruent.
"I'll get you a hotel for tonight," he said.
"Oh no, I couldn't, I couldn't accept that, but thank you."
"Where are you going to sleep? You're more than welcome to come to my place," Brad offered, as if he just thought of it.
"Ummm."
"I only murder prostitutes," he said.
She laughed at his sick joke and Brad got a glimpse of what she really looks like. Sparkling, a white smile that warmed her face. Oops, thought Brad, too happy. He had to turn the conversation around.
"Why do you think he cheated?" He asked. She took a small sip of wine, licked her lips and met his eyes.
"Why would you ask me that?"
"I thought it would be good to get some feelings out." Fuck.
"I don't care why he did it. I'm sure he has excuses, blaming, apologies. He did it, it's over." She picked up her wine glass, swallowed twice. She folded her napkin, "Let's get out of here."
She was messing with his seduction rhythm. He looked for the waitress. She was a good waitress with Waitress ESP and brought the tab right over.
"My flat's not too far. Four minutes. Let me put my coat on you," It swallowed her.
"You are so good and kind and nice," Winona said. There's a saying: 'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.'"
"Why? Are you an angel?"
"Maybe," she said, "Are you?"
"Hardly."
"This is beautiful," she said when he opened the door to his flat. She gravitated to a wall of paintings.
"I like this," she said, "It looks like you buy paintings you like, not pictures you think would look good."
He laughed, "I'm not sure how to take that."
"When did you buy this picture of the lone man standing outside the door?"
"Oh, I was alone, wandering in Europe after graduating."
"This one," Winona pointed, "This oil of the couple doing the tango that looks like a dove taking flight."
"I bought that with my first commission check."
"And this colorful painting of the three people drinking wine at the lake?"
"In France, artist named Dilley. I was with friends, a great time."
"Your paintings tell the story of your life."
"Nobody's ever noticed that before. I never did," he said, "Well, I'll change the sheets on my bed and I'll take the couch."
"No," she said.
"I insist," I insist on fucking you on a bed. He left and returned with boxer shorts, t-shirt, a new boxed toothbrush and a towel. While she was in the bathroom, he put fresh sheets on his bed. She came out and they met awkwardly in the hallway.
"Thank you so much for everything," she said, trying to step around his bulk.
"Is there anything else I can get you? Do you need to call anybody?"
"No, Brad, thank you."
He wrapped his large arms around her, running a hand down her spine. A string of pearls. "I'm going to hop in the shower for a sec," he told her.
The bed was heaven. Winona sprawled in the bed, wiggling her feet in the rich sheets. She looked around the room. A portrait of a beautiful woman in anguish, tears flowing, hands gripping her hair, stared back at her. Winona frowned. Slowly she turned and studied the painting behind the bed. It was a huge oil of a woman in jeans, her head bent, standing at a grave. Her hair curtained her face; it was the posture of a woman broken. Winona stared at the pair of tiny baby shoes that dangled from her index finger.
Brad walked out of the bathroom, toweling his hair. His bedroom door was open. She was gone. He knew without looking that she wasn't in the apartment but he looked anyway. He shrugged. He had work tomorrow. He slid into his clean sheets, turned off the lamp, and masturbated.
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