The prompt words over at Three Word Wednesday are grave, lithe and offend.
Smoke hangs over her head, gray storm clouds building each time she exhales a lungful of air.
Despite the baggy clothing, she’s lithe, slick, boyish. She hides her angles to them to heighten the allure. She powders her face, applies a little rouge, re-applies black lipstick. She hates her lips, their thinness, and makes a face.
She runs a quick hand though her dark hair, which a friend has cut short. A precaution out here, when you have to run, there’s nothing to grab onto. Same goes for her clothing; the volume allows for a quick egress when trouble finds her.
She’s trolling tonight. The other ladies, all dressed to flash like neon, hurl insults in hopes of driving her away. She is not offended.
She owns this block.
The men come to admire the tarts, ogle the flesh, but fall for her androgyny.
She’s careful, this one, and she hunts quickly.
The trick is old, she likes them mature, and follows as she walks into the dimness of the alley.
She’s chosen this particular block for its proximity to the warehouse district. She tells them it’s more fun in a warehouse, the echoes amplifing her desires.
She opens the door and for a brief instant, a hint of decay. Old blood spilled, haplessly cleaned.
She unbuckles his pants, yanks them to his knees. She’s rough about it, and moves his jacket down his arms. His hands disappear just as he reaches for her.
And in that moment, he’s vulnerable.
She flicks the straight razor open, drags it across his throat. She’s strong, this one, and the razor bites deep. His eyes go wide as he drops to his knees.
She stands clear of the spray, forcing herself to keep eye contact. It’s important they know who did this, who ended them.
He falls into a heap, the last nerves firing into jerky twitches.
She grabs his greasy hair and drags him to a locked metal door. She’s quick with the key and opens the meat locker.
Her chilly grave for the bastards who cut up her mother.