Cold Shoulder 2

Every second, minute, hour, and day, I am watching. No moment is secret from my eyes. I see you in Walmart’s soap aisle, flicking between shelves, pretending to consider a new scent before choosing vanilla cookie crumble—your favorite. This routine made it easy to find you. Five years, the same pattern. February 15th, our anniversary, the day after Valentine’s, the day of your mother’s funeral.

Our first meeting was in the Roman family’s funeral home. You were breathtaking in black, your pencil skirt clinging like a serpent, your blouse cut just enough to reveal the peaks of your breasts. Tears and eyeliner streaked down your cheeks. You dropped to your knees before your mother’s casket, screaming. To others, it was heartbreak. To me, it was destiny. Scenes of you kneeling, looking up at me with tear-stained cheeks, consumed my thoughts. My boss, Jacob Roman, interrupted: “Let’s give the family some privacy.” I knew then—you were mine.

Your routine shattered on May 1st. Leah dragged you to Barrel and Bog for trivia night, a place unfit for you. That man pinned you to the wall, hands wandering, your leg wrapped around him, pulling him closer. Disgusting. You took him back to OUR bed. I watched him bend you over the mattress, watched your face as you searched for pleasure that never came. It ended quickly. You lay there, sin running down your thighs, not moving, not dressing—just sleeping beside him.

I turned away, lying on the fire escape, the cold biting my skin. Sleep stole me for a moment. Sunlight pried my eyes open. When I peered through the window, my stomach churned before my mind could process. Vomit hit the floor. Dried brown blood covered your body, and your abdomen split open like a high school dissection. That bastard drained the life from you.

But now you’re here, with me. Your head rests on my lap, still and beautiful. You look just like your mother. A pristine white sheet covers you, but the cold is foreign to you. Your hands are ice, but don’t worry, my love—I’ll care for you as I did her. Five short years ago, I held her just like this.

Tomorrow is your big day, and nothing can go wrong. I ensured perfection. Special-ordered titanium eye caps, the finest silk sutures to seal your lips and jaw, extra ponceau red in your embalming fluid to mimic your natural flush. And, of course, I washed you in vanilla cookie crumble. The scent, mingled with formaldehyde, doesn’t do you favors, but I had to honor tradition. Your beauty is everlasting now, unmarred by time or betrayal.

As I leave, I wish I could be in that drawer with you. I will turn off the lights and set the morgue alarm so nothing disturbs your sleep. I must rest now and prepare for tomorrow.

Because tomorrow, my sweet love, you will be mine forever, bound in silence, preserved in perfection.