Status: Active
Live Without Warning
Dangerous
She was a brunette.
Sitting at the bar she lit her cigarette and took it away from her mouth.
She was a brunette.
That brunette smoked; drag after drag after drag off of that cigarette. Then she put it out. All I knew, at that moment as she sipped her glass full of vodka, with her poisonously purple nails, is that she was a brunette.
Was she the killer? Was she drowning away her guilt in that glass of vodka as she lifted it to her lips and drained it?
I don’t know, but she was a brunette, and a beautiful brunette at that. Her lipstick was blood red; her lashers were thick and dark, the kind of lashes that you see on the kind of actresses that cry on screen a lot. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was an actress. She sure was pretty enough with her curling smile, blood red around another cigarette.
She was wearing a trench coat, never a good sign. Under her trench coat I could see her profile. She had a large chest, one that made even me; a married man think the dirtiest of thoughts. Next came her tight waist. She was as small as my wife which meant I could probably wrap my hands around her, twice.
She was a brunette.
She turned to face me.
Her blue almost black eyes seemed to see right through me.
“Can I help you, Detective Adams?”
I shot out of bed. Looking at my surroundings I wiped at my face.
I looked down at my wife whose night stand had a pack of cigarettes.
And I realized.
She was a brunette.
Sitting at the bar she lit her cigarette and took it away from her mouth.
She was a brunette.
That brunette smoked; drag after drag after drag off of that cigarette. Then she put it out. All I knew, at that moment as she sipped her glass full of vodka, with her poisonously purple nails, is that she was a brunette.
Was she the killer? Was she drowning away her guilt in that glass of vodka as she lifted it to her lips and drained it?
I don’t know, but she was a brunette, and a beautiful brunette at that. Her lipstick was blood red; her lashers were thick and dark, the kind of lashes that you see on the kind of actresses that cry on screen a lot. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was an actress. She sure was pretty enough with her curling smile, blood red around another cigarette.
She was wearing a trench coat, never a good sign. Under her trench coat I could see her profile. She had a large chest, one that made even me; a married man think the dirtiest of thoughts. Next came her tight waist. She was as small as my wife which meant I could probably wrap my hands around her, twice.
She was a brunette.
She turned to face me.
Her blue almost black eyes seemed to see right through me.
“Can I help you, Detective Adams?”
I shot out of bed. Looking at my surroundings I wiped at my face.
I looked down at my wife whose night stand had a pack of cigarettes.
And I realized.
She was a brunette.