by Justine Wilson
You were lean and dark-haired in your open-air Jeep. You made your left turn and I followed, all the way to the cafe on South Beverly Drive. I took a corner table, drank a mocha latte, watched you flirt with the redhead. Guys came up, asked for a seat and a chance. I licked foam off my lips. I only wanted you.
Weeks passed, and I learned you so well. You approached me in the club, said, “How come we don’t know each other?” We squeezed onto the dance floor. I put my mouth to the warm salty hollow between neck and shoulder, moved my tongue along your skin until I found your pulse.
That was my first taste of you.
You never learned me at all. “She’s a sweet girl,” I heard you say on the phone. “She would never do anything like that.” That was your version, which begins We met at a club, and ends, I’m in love with Lucinda. I’m sorry. I hope we’ll be friends.
But it began at the corner of Wilshire and Beverly Glen, your wild swing into a reckless left.
The heft of the gun in my purse. The way to your house through this maze of sun-slammed streets.
I am the one telling the story, my love.
I will be your ending.
Justine lives in Los Angeles with her husband and six-month-old twin sons. Her urban fantasy novel, BLOODANGEL, will be published by Roc/NAL/Penguin in fall ’05. This is her website.