Butterfly Watcher
She moves like a Black Widow, southern of course. My northern eyes tend to navigate towards the cannibalistic type. Long legs, brunettes - never been much into blondes. Race doesn’t matter. Interrupting the natural flow of life by bickering over skin color perverts desire’s intentions.
Women - a rare species. They’re those colorful winged angels that fly by day and haunt each night. Visually appealing, charming - seductive.
I seek out the most attractive that I can find, granting them their finest hour. Champagne, dinner, dancing - everyone should have at least one moment when they feel like the world is at their feet. I whisper promises I never intend to keep. Well, that’s not completely true. I do offer the fight of their life and ultimately render eternal rest.
Does that make me a monster, an animal? The morning paper refers to me as a vile creature, only a semblance of a man.
I prefer to call myself the Butterfly Watcher and tonight I have my eye on the Black Widow at the bar. The one drinking the martini. Long dark brown hair, olive colored skin. She’s not dry like the vermouth she presses against her lips but sweet, wet - a taste you’d savor.
Have I become infatuated? Have the tables turned? Looking down at my empty glass I begin imagining what venom would taste like. How would it feel to break someone of that stature? Would trying bring my reign to an end? Would I let it?
As my eyes slowly reach the peak of my brow I realize the vision before me. Black Widow places her martini glass on the tobacco oak bar table and takes a seat across from me. We stare for awhile, lost in each others gaze - intrigued at what the night might bring.
She raises her left hand, slowly tracing the outline of her lips. Strokes her cheek with the back of her hand, gradually, in downward motion until she traces her neck. We smile, taunting each other.
Visually appealing is the Black Widow, vile is the Butterfly Watcher. The morning paper will tell how it ends.
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