When the birdsong ceased, Claudine began a story told to her by her friend Izamar. Izamar, she reminded them, was a lanky brunette dripping, as Claudine put it, with existential savoir faire, not to mention international sophistication. But this particular story told by Izamar was an anecdote about a friend of hers--that is a friend of Izamar's.This friend, Irina, was in her late forties at the time of the story, a slender, brunette, attractive though shy person. She dressed conservatively and wore glasses and not much makeup if any and lived alone in a bungalow on Garden Street. She had a halting gait as if walking was an effort. Her whole hip went into this motion. It was not actually unattractive actually because it drew attention to the motion of her hips ... of her curving though not obtrusive rump. She undulated well. Her hips were narrow especially for a woman of her age but not boyish ... rather they were alluring. Her skin ... the skin of her thighs, her torso. her bosom .... He would make sure she understood how things stood. He was in charge. He was, not that damn cop. She would understand, he would make damn sure of it. And if she didn't, well, then she would be made to understand in one way or another. He pulled the knife out of the branch at his leg and ran the blade across his thumb watching the blood bead. He stared at it, then licked it.He could have killed him tonight. Detective Nick Saint, superhero, had stood just feet away from him. He could have shot him. He could have jumped down from the tree and used the knife on him. But that wasn't part of the game. It would have been too easy, too quick. The bastard deserved to suffer. The game must be finished.He walked towards the house, not worrying about being seen. He could see inside the house, see through the window as they stood kissing. He watched as they walked into the bedroom. He watched and he stood just outside the window, hoping they would see him. He saw them pull at each others.
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