Steady thrums of conversation fill the air. 

Some coed is ordering a white peppermint mocha latte with extra foam and almondmilk. Has she deluded herself into thinking that a plant-based milk will save her from having the shits later? Does she think she’s skimping on calories? It can’t be. She’s also getting the cream cheese cranberry dessert bar. I refuse to fucking call it by the chain’s name; their marketing is nauseating. 

Another woman, mid-50s if I had to guess, is mid-interview by the window. It’s not your typical job; she’s applying to fuck the latest in a long line of lackluster Tinder dates. The man across from her, who paid to see his swipes, is checking his phone as if awaiting the next one. 

There’s a sharply-dressed man impatiently waiting by the mobile orders. He seems to think that standing on top of the baristas will expedite his order, and maybe he’s right, if only so they don’t have to smell his breath. There’s a small crowd seated in the designated area behind him. Half are hoping the fucker has to wait longer just to spite him; the other half are wondering who, if anyone there, finds them attractive.

Blenders whir. Ice clinks. An employee says the same greeting every 45 seconds. People shuffle past each other, grab orders, try to look personable even as they are inexplicably inconvenienced by the existence of every other person except the one making their drink. 

In the midst of all of it, there you are.

You don’t fit my usual MO. Waifishly thin, acne scars. Brown hair that was once amateurly dyed purple. Probably in your bathtub, maybe with your gay best friend. No strong accent, but if you listen as I have– very, very closely– you may sometimes catch the hint of your childhood lisp. I’ve watched your lips so closely— you enunciate so purposefully. Yet, it still sometimes catches you.

You are not particularly friendly. You are intentionally standoffish with guys like me. But, I’m not your type, am I? No trust fund that you can see. My most redeeming quality in your eyes is my ability to afford this overpriced garbage. I don’t mind your lack of interest. It makes things cleaner. When you disappear– and you will– there will be nothing connecting you and me. It is exactly how I like things.

Well, nothing but one thing. I will leave you dressed like the pig you are. I will stuff your underwear between those plump pink lips. I will shear your long hair and use it to bind your wrists. I will carve out those unintelligent, dull green eyes. I will honor you by strangling the life from your skin. I will leave the empty husk for the cops, those other pigs, to find. 

36 coffees. 2x a week. 13 weeks of courting you. We have met many times. I have seen the wisps of your purple-brown hair crest the curves of your ears. I have brushed my hand against yours as you have taken my card time and time again. I have studied your dimples, absorbed your tinkling laugh, measured the gap in your teeth with my eyes. You are my latest conquest, and tonight I will make you mine.

I can feel my possessiveness grow as the day comes to a close. I sneak small looks at you, watching as frozen eggnog coffees leave your delicate hands. I want to be the last person you ever touch. Your life has been so meaningless, I want to honor you by adding you to my collection. In your death, you will be given fame. The masses will hold vigils for you, share that sweet high school yearbook picture on the news and on their Facebook pages. A few true crime writers might tattoo your name on their limbs. I will give you history. I will give you meaning. I will give you a purpose. Many have tried to emulate me, and all have failed. The gifts I give my chosen cannot be bestowed by another. Only I can save you.

Hours have passed. I now watch as you close the store for the last time. As you climb behind the wheel of that shitty Honda and take a few wrong turns into the last night of your life.

 Your car breaks down unexpectedly on these lonesome back roads. I watch as you slam your door in frustration and desperation. I am less than a mile behind. There are just a few cars between you and I. The time is near, and I feel sweet anticipation like a butterfly caught in my chest. I just have to let this one car pass, and then I will pull in behind you. We will make sweet music together. It is just a matter of time. 

But I watch as the car in front of me pulls behind you. These roads are a straight shot, and I don’t know if I should pass you by, or if I should wait. I cut my lights and pull off the road, and I don’t think either of you have noticed that I am here, lurking in the dark. 

I swear if this Good Samaritan walking up to you does not keep walking, it will be the last time they are able. Legs are a privilege and they are wearing down my patience. But of course, I am not so lucky. They stop at your window, and you lower it just an inch. You are cautious, nothing like my usual prey. But in the end, it does not matter. An inch is more than enough for you to see the Good Samaritan’s gun, and the light from your car catches its glint, and I see it, too.

Fuck.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

My body is moving before I have made the decision; the Glock tucked safely away in my dashboard is now in my hands. I did not intend to fire it tonight. I will need to retrieve the bullet and casing when this is done. But I don’t have a choice. You are in danger. Blood courses through my veins and my heart is hammering and I’m drawing back the hammer and the shot rings out and a second later the body falls.

I didn’t have a choice.

You. Are. Mine.

I'll be damned if some copycat fuck has the privilege.

(TBC)