Her husband paid me R10,000 to kill her, but when I saw her the world got drunk. I was in love.
Her smile supported flushed dimples crested by fern-green eyes reading my heart. Her voice was a television advert, soft and flowy, and the mouth that issued them was islanded by lips that said welcome in the manner that only a long-standing wife should say it.
Breasts moved beneath her designer sweater like unopened sachets of low-fat milk, and her thighs danced generously. “Danced” was understatement. It’s more like they writhed with invitation.
“Yes,” I replied with suppressed eagerness when she asked me to dinner.
Dinner was excellent.
When I rose from their bed, I crossed to the chair in front of the oak dressing table. My jacket draped there. I thrust my hand into a pocket that produced two items. The first was a packet of fireballs. I popped one into my mouth and sucked hard whilst admiring the feel of my Colt AMT.
Minutes before, I’d been licking her throat. I shot her there.
Love is only love, and money can buy more guns.
* Scribbled in the early Nineties, just after I left school, before I discovered that love is more dangerous than novels, and that writing about guns should be careful.
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