The man watches as the young woman in professional clothing times her escape. He can see it in her face - the wicked smile and the constant glances as she finishes her food. And it wasn't the first time he'd spotted her, no. He often dined around town during his lunch break and she'd shown up in two other restaurants around the same time.
He spills his salt as she takes a gulp of her wine. She refills the glass with what was left in the bottle while he traces a pattern in the salt. Once it complete, he leans forward to blow the salt towards her. And then he sits back to enjoy his meal while keeping an eye on the woman.
She is slim of hips and chest in a navy blue pencil skirt that reaches below her knees. Her shirt is white, long sleeved and buttoned and she wears tan high heels. Her long, platinum blonde hair is tied up and secured with lacquered chopsticks. As he watches, she wipes her faint red lips with her napkin before asking for the check. Her eyes watch the door as the waiter arrives with the bill and collects her empty plates.
When the waiter leaves and the host's attention is elsewhere, she takes her chance. She stands, casually walks to the front, reaches into the tip jar and withdraws a handful of cash.
And then she steps out into the busy sidewalk.
He takes his time finishing his food and gives an overly generous tip along with compliments to the chef. With a smile for the staff at the front, he leaves enough of a tip in the jar to replace what was stolen and then follows the woman into the mid-day warmth of the sun.
She wasn't too far, according to his spell, but he doesn't bother chasing her down. Instead, he walks to the nearest alley and steps into the shadow with a quiet whisper.
The woman nearly screams when he appears at her shoulder. Her hand goes to her pale throat and her eyes widen as she glances around the nearly empty street.
"Wha-"
"Why do you do it?" he asks, honestly curiously. He's come up with several reasons beforehand but can't be certain, despite the large number of years he's been alive to witness the various mannerisms of the people stumbling around him.
"Why-? Who are you?" she stuttered.
"Nobody of importance. Not to you," he replies. "Answer the question. Why do you do it? Are you poor? I doubt it, based on the places you've stolen from but I'm struggling to understand why you do it."
"Are you the police?" she asks as the faint red in her cheeks was swallowed by the pale whiteness of fear.
He gestures at himself slowly. "Do I look like the police? Please don't make me ask again."
The woman licks her lips, glances around and then sneers at him.
"Because I can," she tells him. "Of course I could afford their shitty food but where's the fun in
that
? I get a thrill out of it."
He cocks his head but nods, disappointed that it was the most obvious reason. Her eyes are as green as the malice that seems to poison her. "You don't even keep the money you steal, do you?"
"The dollars?" she asks and then laughs with her hand against her chest. "Why the hell would I keep a few dollars? If they're lucky, there's maybe twenty in the jar every time. I do keep it and it pays for what I don't take."
"I see," he says, thinking to himself.
"Now kindly fuck off," she tells him, turning to leave.
"Oh, miss?" he calls out. She turns and his fingers dance against his palm. With a flick of his wrist, he holds a thin leather necklace out towards her. She takes it by reflex but it vanishes as her fingers brush the material.
"How-?" she looks at her fingers and then at his. He can tell she wants to ask him what the trick is but her pride and anger hold her back.
The woman stalks off without another word, unaware of the thin collar secured around her neck.
"I'll be at Talley Park this same time tomorrow," he calls out to her.
Rather than answer, she flips him off without a backwards glance and his answering smile is almost impossible to see.
--
She stares at herself in the mirror, frozen in fear. The necklace the man held is attached to her throat. She didn't even feel it until she was home in her small but well-appointed apartment. A small blank metal square is attached to it and there's a simple buckle holding it in place.
Her fingers reach for the buckle and she pulls the end through the loop but the prong refuses to budge. Her nails dig under it and she tries to force it but it's as if it was welded to the frame itself.
She stands and walks into her kitchen with the buckle turned to the front of her throat. As she walks, she scratches the itch forming along her collarbone. She can feel the pleasurable sensation down to her toes and her nails dig in deep until she stands before her sink.
The woman rummages through her drawers and pulls a fork from within. She lays it against the buckle carefully and pulls with her chin raised. The collar tightens against her throat but refuses to come undone. She slams the fork down with a frustrated cry.
"Oh, stupid, stupid," she says, scratching herself behind the ear with a happy sigh. She reaches into the draw and pulls the scissors free. The edge of the scissors slide against her throat and she shivers. She rubs them against her, scratching the fine white hairs that coat her pale, perfect skin.
Finally, she slips the scissors under the collar and snips. The scissors buck in her hand as if she's trying to cut pure steel. She tries again but the blades refuse to close completely. After a third abortive try, she growls and throws the scissors across the room.
Her heart races and cold sweat slides down her chest. She scratches her breastbone through her thin top and then rubs the tips of her ears between her fingers while staring at the scissors.
She feels it in her throat, first. A beat in time with her heart. Like a growing seed, it blossoms warmly and its roots dig through her veins until she shivers from the unnatural heat suffusing her. The gasp that escapes her lips is entirely unexpected and she presses the palm of her hand against her mound.
