Jack peeked around the corner, holding his breath. His lungs burned as if filled by molten metal rather than the cold night air. But if he made one sound – the wrong sound – he would ruin everything.
Steam billowed up from imperfectly fitted manhole covers and filled the night with fog lit silver by the city lights. The ethereal bridal veil of mist filled the whole alley. Jack could barely see his own feet.
He reached into his jacket. He couldn’t see the woman, but Jack knew she was here… somewhere. He had seen her there inside the club. Her short red dress made promises that he knew she would break, if given half a chance.
Jack would not give her that chance. He had not come to the club to listen, but to speak. Inside, she had seen his hand dip into his jacket pocket, just as he was doing now. So the woman in red ran, bolting out the back door of the club and into the fog-filled alleyway behind.
A shadow moved in the swirling mist. The woman in the red dress ran out from behind a dumpster that leaned on three wheels. Her dark hair had come unbound and fell down her back like spilled ink. She turned, ready to run out into the street. Who knew what dangers awaited a beautiful woman out there? But they were a better bet than staying here…
Jack’s fingers closed on the paper. He pulled it out and held the small white square up to the light.
“There’s a song
Sung without words,” he read from the paper.
The woman stopped, turning slowly back towards Jack. Her lips were painted the same red as her dress. Red as rubies, as blood and roses.
“No!” she gasped in wonder and horror.
“There’s a sorrow
Wept without tears
For the day we met
And the day we parted
You forever stilled
And forever silenced
My aching heart.”
The woman’s hand flew to her chest, pressed against her heart. She staggered back and fell against the dumpster. Her red dress shone ember-bright against the shabby rust and peeling paint.
Jack stood over her. Now she was the one not breathing, the one laying still in the silenced alleyway.
With his work done, Jack pocketed the paper and walked out onto the street, a pleased smile on his lips. The Poetry Mafia would be pleased with his work tonight.
Subject suggested by Gabriel Gadfly: Poetry mafia.
