Crime of Passion

Gloria Hansen is deceptively beautiful. Supple, smooth skin, perfect form. In the bushes outside her condo, where the lamppost doesn't shine, I can see her putting on her little black dress. I always wondered if her grace was just an act, or if it came naturally to her, and indeed it does; she doesn't look sloppy slipping into that dress as anyone else would, but she sort of slithers into it, like some sort of middle eastern dance. Nothing she ever does looks clumsy, like normal people. She stands above us. Better than us.

No one believes me when I tell them the power she has. How dangerous she is. They say I'm obsessing, that I'm crazy. I don't care. I know what I see and what I see is some kind of jungle animal. Like a great cat. A black panther, who might at a distance appear as a diminutive feline, but up close, you can see her for the beast that she is.

She steps over to the mirror and takes a stick of blood red lipstick, and I swear the way she applies that red paint across her lips, she must know I'm watching. But no, I was careful. I quickly dart around to make sure my cover hasn't been compromised, and then I look back through the window, and I see her reaching into her closet and pulling out a black hat, the kind women used to wear back in the forties, and yuppies think is so fashionably retro. It fits her like a crown.

Now this is interesting. She sits down on the bed and pulls her stockings on, slowly, gracefully pulling them up her leg and lifting her dress as she drags them into position and I can't breathe for a moment. I want to be with her.

I don't want to be outside her condo, watching like some sort of predator, I want to take her, have her for myself. But I can't, not in this lifetime. She owns a law firm that ours has been competing with for clientele. She hates me because she knows that it's me who's been ruining her business. Without me, her competition wouldn't stand a chance. I've probably lost her tens of thousands of dollars this week alone. And so, here I am, her sworn enemy, due to a roll of the die.

She walks over to the dresser and- shit. I duck down as an old woman with blue hair and pastel sweats walks by with her toy dog. The Pomeranian starts sniffing the bush and the woman just drags it away, not bothering to turn her head. I let out a sigh of relief and look through the window and there she is, standing right beside the blinds, her back turned to me. She's on her cell. I press my ear against the windowpane but I can't make out the words. The light goes off and I duck down again, and a minute later she's outside locking up the condo, and walking for her car. I wait until she's left the lot and I dart for my Jaguar.

I'm having a hard time keeping up with her, she's driving like a bat out of hell. So I'm having to drive like an asshole when she turns out of sight, and check my tazer and my camera to make sure both are working properly at the same time. Screwing this up could mean the end of my life as I know it.

Eventually, we make it to my house. I park a few houses down and watch her as she walks casually up to my door. My camera is running now. It's go time. I zoom in on her as she reaches down and picks up the Gothic porch statue I keep my spare key under, and she unlocks the front door. Gracefully. Like she does this every day. I start moving in as fast and quiet as I can manage. I slip around the back, to the back door I left unlocked. I slink inside and watch as she deactivates my alarm. She steps casually, quietly up the stairs, and into my bedroom and I keep the camera focused on her the whole time.

Once in my room, she walks over to the form lying in the bed that she thinks is me, and ever so slowly edges around the bed and delicately, so as not to wake me, sits on the edge of the bed. She reaches into her purse. This is it. My sweating palm wraps around the grip of the tazer, and I almost sink my thumb too hard on the button in my excitement. She pulls out a pack of Pall Malls and lights one up. You've gotta be kidding me. I hold my breath in the deafening silence that follows.

I gently set the camera down on the dresser by the door, facing the bed. Finally, she reaches into her purse, takes out her switchblade and stabs the pillows under the comforter of my bed exactly three times but no more. One for the neck, one for the heart, and one for the gut. Crime of passion. Yeah. Right. This will be an easy conviction. I race forward and stick the tazer to the bitch's neck.