Love’s Abiding Crime

I’m in love with a girl and she doesn’t even know my name. Common problem I know, but there is so little common about her. Few woman can command attention like she can. She’s graceful, willful and captivating. She has a way with words that can make grown men grovel. She is the thunder, the lightning and the glorious electric blue glow: the whole package.  She’s got a soft side too. After all, she didn’t shoot me.

I met her for the first time at the Second National downtown. Between bronze rails and above a marble floor, she walks in. Somehow through a thick down coat, she sashays. For a moment I see her eyes, magnificent emeralds that seem to pierce my very soul. She turns to the tellers, moving to the center of the lobby. From a space between buttons she pulls a revolver. It’s a Manurhin 73, I looked it up. Her voice booms DOWN ON THE GROUND and I am but a helpless fool to cupid and the gross misuse of the 2nd amendment. Apparently, we were all watching her because no one noticed the four burly men covering the exits with rifles. Security is especially ashamed of this oversight.

I’m down on the floor fighting my third leg, trying to avoid an involuntary push up. She’s walking among the crowd. I get a good look at her, though there’s not much to see. She’s been winter treated with fur boots, stocking cap, wool scarf and a pair of driver’s gloves. Somehow, I’m attracted. I guess I just like powerful women. They take two bags each back to their car. I’m left heartbroken, she doesn’t even give me a second glance.

Well, winter turns to spring and time comes that a man thought’s turn to cheetos and sodas the size of trucks. So as the big hand meets the little hand at twelve, I find myself at the Gas N’ Gulp feeling empty and wishing to be a trash receptacle. As I reach the door I hear a familiar voice. It’s my favorite criminal and she’s as passionate as ever.


I’m frozen, she plows through the door and then I’m on the ground. She stops and is just short of apologizing. The hockey mask she wore is in her left hand, her right hand is carrying the same beautiful piece of French weaponry as before. Her face is a long oval with a straight nose that meekly points right below the lip. Her hair is long, curly, black and fake. She considers shooting me but sirens are coming and our rendezvous is cut short. SHIT! Then she’s gone and I’m left wondering if she’d come to visit me in heaven.

It’s Monday and we meet again. She’s in orange scrubs and I’m wearing Armani. The inequity between us is awkward to say the least. I try to say hello but the deputies are very rude to me and refuse to allow her any privacy. Her hair is red, straight and real. She seems beaten and worn down and it’s all I can do not to cry. There’s a tough trial ahead but, luckily I can be a horrible prosecutor when I want to be.

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