He opened the door with her standing there looking up at him, doe-eyed and all.  A tan suitcase, with LV symbols rolling in diagonals rested near her feet.  A purse, with designer symbols on it as well, laid over the top.  In a gradual rise, their eyes met.  She slowly pursed her lips and said, “Please fix me.  I’m broken.”

She was fine as hell.  The yoga pants and top hugged her talents and put them on full display.  He could feel himself getting woozy, swooning in wave after wave of the trance she was working on him, swooning in the hex she was casting on him.  She was chipping away at his IQ, at the point total.  She was dropping his credit score, making him dumber by the minute.

In the haze, he struggled to fight off the pheromones snaking their way toward him.  The mass of molecules drifted across the gulf between them, reaching into his mind.  Yanking at the tentacle looping itself around his neck, squeezing and choking the oxygen to his brain, he loosened it’s hold.   He shook his head, desperately reaching for clarity through the fog settling on the banks of his mind.

Seeing his salvation in a closed window, he ran to it.  Fumbling with the latch on two unsuccessful efforts, he finally managed to push it open. Sticking his head out the window, he sucked in the untainted, oxygen-rich air.

He stared across the gap at an older woman humming a tune while hanging clothes from her window to dry. She was wearing a scarf on her head with a floral print showing through the two coats she wore. She dropped two pins, before a man of equal gray reached forward and slid his hand over hers to help. She fussed at her increasing loss of independence; a possession time was slowly robbing her of.

He took another deep breath and remembered all the shit she’d done to him over and over and over. She was expert at playin’ him. Preying on his feelings and love for her. She knew her power and she worked it expertly.

He spun around to face her. Looking at her, he took inventory. Reaching past her, he grabbed the door knob, “I lack the tools to fix you.” Pulling the door through it’s arc, he told her, “Bye! Get the hell on! Get gone!”

Alone in his apartment, he slid down to the floor. The cataracts began to fall away while he rubbed the itching around his eyes, bringing the colors of the room back. He could smell the mid-day baking of bread floating up from the bakery below, along with the sounds of life passing on the sidewalks.

She’s shallow.
She’s shallow.
Don’t save her.
She don’t wanna be saved.

by malakhai jones
(C) Copyright 2016

img src https://a2.muscache.com/im/pictures/b56a3932-d0ca-437f-a3dc-3628adb2a929.jpg?aki_policy=x_large