the final victim of a metro serial-killer

Oh, this us creepy! Well done!

The literati mafia

he is the neatnik of her dreams,

natty in his dark-wash jeans.

a brown heather sweater vest over

a sky-blue button down and under

an elbow-patched tweed blazer.

wing-tip shoes.

a bow-tie would be overkill, which he clearly knows;

so he tops it off with argyle socks

and a sharp but casual

hounds-tooth fedora.

He wonders what it would be like to undo each button to discover the underneath.  Not the undergarments; his momma raised him to never overtly wonder what lies beneath a woman’s clothing, especially not to himself. What he would like to find is the way in which the rib cage sits upon the vertebral column; to stroke the xiphoid process gently. To find the swell of stomach as it peeks from under its bony confine in the left quadrant. He knows she’s just eaten, so it will be easily palpated.

she cannot avert her eyes,

beneath thick lashes she spies.


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