Mannequin

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He found her in the alley behind Mervyns and brought her home to his loft apartment, which overlooked the cemetery.

After laying her down on a mattress beneath the open window, he sponged her smudged body clean.

In the blotchy dusk, her eyes -- glowing red as a cardinal’s crest -- frightened him.

So he went to the sink, and underneath it found his rusted tool box. The hinges groaned when he lifted the lid.

Beside her again, he whispered, “Be still.”

Carefully, he positioned his hammer over an ice pick and began to tap out her eyes.

The cavities were filled with peppermint candies, the red swirls reminding him of an ad he’d seen on the back cover of one of his comic books.

He straddled her, leaned forward and licked her forehead. Then he ran his tongue over her minty eyes.

When she didn’t respond, he struck her. Still, she remained motionless.

His big hands groped, the calloused fingers wandering over her breasts, her hips, inside her thighs. In the darkness, his breathing intensified.

He wept when it became clear that, anatomically, it would be impossible to love her.

At the window he stared out at the cemetery.