Nobody Does It Better

Tonight I washed my work shirt by hand.

Interesting fact: always do whites by hand now. It saves power and it is quicker. I can watch the red go down the sink, imagining it go down the drain, through the long pipes running under our apartment, and out to the service canal.

Tonight had been delectable. The usual unnamed, unmarked parcel at the door followed by coded doorbell chimes. I trashed the packaging with my knife and, while studying the photos inside, started trying on dresses, each one more bodacious than the last. The better to kill with, my dear.

An ID with the name Shaina Woolfe in my bag, I hurried to the Aston Martin waiting outside. As the driver swerved across town, I applied blood-red lipstick. Delectable, as a tiny chip falls down into my mouth.

And much later on, I had the mark tied down to her hotel room chair, blindfolded and gagged, her top open ever too slightly to reveal snowy-white skin. Minutes ago, I had trashed the place purposely, knowing that the idiot copy who would open the door would think it a robbery.

I put my finger on the trigger and apply pressure in, just as the washroom door opened and out came this little boy in a sailor’s uniform, holding a yellow rubber duck-y. He was cowering at the doorframe, eyes open, his mouth almost about to ask, ‘What are you doing, you crazy assassin bitch?’

Almost.

Tonight, I washed their memories off my dress. By hand so it becomes dainty again, my perfect little white dress. Glitters and sequens. The doorbell buzzed its secret code.

I load my gun.

——————-

This is the 100 Songs Project, a 100-day writing challenge based on AFI’s 100 Years…100 Songs. Every day, I write a short poem, prose piece, or play based on, reacting to, rejecting, accepting, or doing something related to one of the songs in the top 100 list.

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