You're drinking at the bar surrounded by faces you'd just as soon not know when she sits down next to you after asking, "Is this seat taken?"
You look up and find that you're facing a cherub, or rather what a cherub might become if it was allowed to grow up and wear clothes and not that stupid diaper.
A little heavier than what's fashionable, but that's all right, what do a bunch of poufs in advertising know about what men want? Gives a lad somethin' to hold onto when on the job.
She introduces herself, a little hesitantly, but you can tell she likes what she sees when she looks at you, and that feels good.
She's a co-ed at SU, majoring in early childhood ed., Freshman, first time away from home, lives, well, she won't tell you but you can guess, either in one of the little fleabag apartments just off campus, or in the dorms. Small town girl, likes SU because it's not too big, but big enough to be "exciting!"
A little lonely, had a high school boyfriend that dumped her after her first month away. Not that she's looking, "Got a light? I forgot mine!"
So you get out the old steel Zippo that you don't remember where or when you picked it up, "Grandad had one of those, he got it in WWII. He used to let me look at it when I was little."
She takes it in her candy-pink tipped fingers, admiring it, and the memories it brings back, "He said it once saved his life ... caught a bullet or something."
Yeah right. They all say that.
She lights up.
You find yourself becoming interested despite your black mood. But then your catlike aloofness is what makes you irresistible, right? So maybe it's not all a bad thing, if it attracts this kind of candy.
"Sorry, I've bent your ear all this time. Who are you?"
She looks at you through the trailing curls of smoke, round pretty face fetchingly tilted to one side, dimpled chin in hand, attentive. Not desperate, just... interested.
Before you open up just enough to keep her that way because it's been a while since anybody's not stood there and expressed openly deserved contempt for you, you pause to order a drink, straight bourbon, and one for the lady... No? "Just a beer for me, thanks!"
You tell her the bare minimum, without going into the details that might send her screaming for the police.
She listens, smiling, nodding a little. You relax just slightly, letting her light her next cigarette off of yours once the drinks arrive.
There was a time when you would have made mincemeat of such an innocent.
There was a time when you would have died had such an approachable angel alit near you.
Now?
She's starting to ask too many questions that you can't quite duck so you consider getting up and heading home for the night, but you don't really want to because home is just some wanker's borrowed closet. To have such a sweet little thing paying attention to you is something you've missed. You don't want to scare her off, not yet, but you're running out of safe noncommittal noises.
To your relief, a song comes on that she clearly wants to dance to but she's too shy to ask. The band's not bad tonight, and mate, you've heard a lot of bands in your day so you make it easy on her and ask her to dance.
The two of you elbow your way through the smoky crowd and onto the dance floor where you surprise her because unlike most guys who are the age you look, you can actually dance and clearly enjoy it as you guide her through the steps.
The one song turns into two, which turns into three. #3's a slow number, contemplative; she lets you take her in your arms so you rest your chin on the top of her head while she rests hers against your shoulder.
She smells good.
Like candy.
Smalltowngirlinnocentcandy.
Your groin stirs, foreskin retracting just a little; you're painfully in love with someone else, but gonads are creatures of the moment.
She notices, looks up into your eyes and giggles a little.
The song ends and the two of you are back at the bar, you've got your arm draped around her shoulders as the two of you watch the band back at it, hard and loud.
She leans into you, smelling of candy, enjoying your company.
Eventually she tells you that she's got classes tomorrow; after all, it is Wednesday and it's almost eight o'clock. "Will you be around?"
You let her know, "Yeah."
This pleases her.
"Need someone to walk you home, luv?" You offer her one of your cigarettes out of the pack, "Lots of big bads out there. Eat a sweet thing up like you. Just. Like. That!" You snap your fingers at her casually with a predatory grin.
She asks you coyly, small town coy, to walk her home.
The walk to her place is a long slow, pleasurable one.
She talks.
You listen, hands in pockets. Don't want to give her the wrong idea just yet, though you realize that she trusts you, even likes you.
Enough to invite you in, maybe for a tumble ... your nose tells you that she's a small town virgin looking for someone to educate her now that fumble-fingered farmboy's out of the picture.
You've done virgins before, hard and rough or soft and gentle, whatever pleased you at the time; this one wants the soft treatment.
You can do that.
If you do it right, she'd feed you the next day before she hurried off to morning classes and be glad to see you at her door should you come 'round again.
Tempting.
Even for a night.
To be welcome.
To be desired.
To be wanted.
To wipe away some of the smears in your life.
Until she finds out what you are.
What you really are.
Don't get your hopes up mate, you tell your cock and balls; we don't need candy right now.
The two of you come to a halt in front of an old art deco complex.
You were right: fleabag apartment.
You pause at the front door, the two of you fidgeting in the harsh yellow light cast by the porch lamps.
Finally she drops her cigarette, grinds it out with her heel and plants one on you.
She tastes sweet, like candy and you fall into her headlong because it's been a long time since anybody's wanted anything to do with you.
Too bad you tore out her throat.
But then again, you always were a sucker for candy, right Spike?