She found him the year
crows were collapsing
from the sky. She
dodged black murders
and tiptoes around
onyx feathers until
she rapped on his
front door. She was a
pretty face with the
edges of her body
blurred, letting her
expand and fill his home.
He felt her pointed shoes
mold with his slippers
and when she stepped inside,
he was forced to retreat.
When she spoke, lilacs and
tulips left her lips.
She was certainly the most
enchanting of the hopefuls
who had come tapping,
eagerly awaiting for a position.
As every good detective knows,
appearances are deceiving.
There were introductions
and references and by the end
of the interview he came to
the conclusion she was
the only one he actually liked.
She could analyze a bullet hole
and determine the product
from whence it came.
She could dab the tears of
distressed victims and
badger criminals till they
were begging for prison
to escape her. She would
laugh at his exaggerated
antics and assist Nanny with
the housework without asking.
She would proofread Dawson's
notes on their cases and correct
every grammatical error.
She was born with the same
detective gene that was engraved
in himself and God help him
if he didn't love her for it.
The three words were impatiently
tapping their feet, waiting to be
released from their prison. He
wanted to tell her when she
brought him his evening tea
and they would read detective novels
by the hazy fire. He wanted to tell
her when she dared to point out his
flaws, when she challenged his findings.
He had wanted to tell her since she
confessed her real reason for coming
to London and everyday since.
But detectives didn't fall in love. It was
too dangerous for their career and the
loved ones.
Accounting wasn't dangerous, was it?
He had always been good with numbers.