She shuddered, her body enjoying one final spasm of ecstasy, and then she fell limp as my fangs retracted, my hungers - both of them - sated.
*****
I had been watching her for several weeks in a row. From my balcony high above the city on the edge of the main shopping district, I saw and heard and smelled a lot. I could even taste a lot, as the scents from the many restaurants - and also all the awful exhaust from the many vehicles - carried on the wind even to the height of my balcony.
Each night at about the same time, she meandered through the busy crowds and shops. I never saw her actually enter any of the shops, although she did often look longingly through their windows. She was a woman of few possessions, and also a woman of few pleasures, for it seemed that everything she owned was carried in a single well-worn backpack, and although she was typically quite clean, she wore the same two sets of clothes, alternating them daily, causing me to believe that she lived in a shelter.
Even from my altitude, I could sense her general despair. The way she carried herself, the way she barely seemed to notice whenever someone bumped into her while rushing past her, the way she moved languidly as if traversing a massive vat of molasses... I wondered if she was simply trying to hang on to this world long enough for something to happen.
I had wondered that with many of my prey. I had wondered that myself until I had found my calling, my salvation from this eternal hell.
The weather had turned cooler, yet she continued to wear a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals. The color of the t-shirt would alternate between black and pink. At times, she would leave her hair down, but mostly she kept it up in a ponytail.
On the few nights when I had strolled through the shopping district in search of her, I could smell her above all others. Her blood was potent, full of an energy the rest of her being did not share. I do not believe that she ever saw me - not consciously, at least - in part because her eyes were almost always downcast, as if watching the sidewalks to ensure she did not step in a present left behind by a stray dog (had she at some point in her life lived in Paris?).
She was easy on the eyes. From behind, her off-brown ponytail swayed across her upper back, accentuating her shoulder blades. She was thin, to the point that the t-shirts she wore barely showed the outline of a bra save for the straps rising over the shoulders. The denim shorts, while definitely not baggy, did not display a panty line at all. When I saw her from the front, I noted that she never wore make-up or jewelry. What was perhaps most notable was the number of unfading scrapes and bruises all over her body, and none of them were recent, signaling either a number of old sports injuries (extremely hard-hitting rugby, perhaps?) or perhaps a domestic situation which had turned very sour.
Finally, one evening, I decided that it was time. I could alleviate her weeks and weeks of despair, and give her at least one moment of pure bliss.
I descended the tall tower of condominiums, noting the scent of impending rain blowing in from the Gulf and thankful - just like the hundreds of thousands of residents of the city - that the hurricane had lessened greatly in intensity and never had an opportunity to reorganize.
