The night was stubborn and thick. Like the remains of a jar of natural peanut butter someone thoughtlessly skimmed the oil out of for the last three weeks.
I mindlessly stirred my caramel-mocha-cocoa-fro-yo latte with my left ring finger and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the gold band I still couldn’t bring myself to part with.
Women. Can’t live with them. Can’t investigate their suspicious deaths because your boss says you’re too close to the case.
She teetered in my doorway like a bosom-heavy lawn ornament, bracing herself against the frame to keep from toppling over. She was tall, with legs that attached to her body the way they were supposed to, but somehow, she made it seem effortless. Hair like ribbon candy, lips like seared ahi tuna, and a figure like an upright bass, this broad was checking my boxes like a hypochondriac taking a health survey.
She dripped into the chair beside my desk with the seductive grace of a mildly inebriated giraff…
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