Meat Me Outside

I feel sexy when I go out at night.

My hair is done up just right, with not a strand out of place. The paint and powder on my lips and face are perfection. Not a single blemish or unkind line mars my face. I'm not beautiful. I am stunning. All heads turn to watch me when I enter a room.

Tonight it's the L Bar, a middle of the road kind of place. Not too fancy, but not too scummy either. It's a place where middle class drones go to forget their shitty jobs and their shitty lives, and if they're lucky, they'll find a willing woman to help them forget their shitty wives, if only for a brief, sweaty moment in the back seat of their mid-sized sedan. Senseless sex in a sensible car.

I've never been to this particular bar before, but really, I've been to this same bar a million times. Change the name on the cruddy neon sign outside, and this bar is identical to all the others. Still, I never go the same bar twice. One night stands with places and people, that's how my nights out on the town go. Luckily, in a city this size, I can remain anonymous forever. Just a passing face in their passing lives, and although I stalk in like a sleek predator, almost none of them will remember me tomorrow. They'll be lost in their jobs and their overtime, and I'll fade away like I never existed.

I settle in an empty space at the bar between a man in a rumpled suit and a couple engaged in tepid conversation that never make eye contact with each other. I order a vodka tonic. The bartender nods. He is well-built with defined muscles semi-visible through his too-tight shirt, but his face is starting to wear under the strain of too many lost dreams and not enough sleep. He brings me my drink, and I pay, tipping him just the right amount to not draw attention one way or the other.

I sip my drink and survey the room. The mammoth mirror behind the bar allows me to scan the room without even having to turn my head. The faces are a blur, each banal, beaten person losing their individuality when seen together. These are the down-trodden masses, linked by misery and regret. The air is thick with their failure, and I breathe it in like a narcotic.

I search the darkness, seizing upon each face and then discarding it. With a clinical eye, I evaluate them. Every line on their creased faces, every varied expression, every laugh and forced smile speak volumes about the person behind the facade. I judge them all and find them lacking. In disgust, I down the rest of my drink and turn away from the bar. And that's when I see him.

In a hidden corner of the room, he sits slumped over a pint of dark beer. He stares into his drink, looking for answers or escape. There is sadness in his face, but underneath that sadness lurks something fierce. He is not nearly as numb as he first seemed. I believe he merely needs to be provoked for that anger in him to erupt, and I am feeling especially provocative tonight.

Smiling, I jot three words on a napkin and walk towards his secluded corner. I stand in front of him, but my presence doesn't penetrate into whatever dark passages his thoughts are currently treading. I slip the napkin into his limp hand. He looks up at me then. My smile widens, and with a certain satisfaction, I see the lust ignite in his eyes. Then I walk away. I don't have to look back to see him reading my note and those three powerful words: Meet me outside.

I walk outside, and before the door closes behind me, he's standing next to me. He starts to talk, but I silence him with a finger on his lips. I press my body against him. He shivers.

My lips brush his ear as I whisper "Take me to your car."

We walk quickly to his vehicle, a blue or gray minivan. It is impossible to figure out which under the greasy yellow street lights. He begins to drive, and I direct him to a poorly lit alley a few blocks from the bar. This alley and a million like it in this city are used on an almost nightly basis for cheap, anonymous sex, usually with money changing hands, and it serves as the perfect spot for us to go unnoticed.

We look at each other. His eyes explore the curve of my breasts and the edge of my skirt that has accidentally on-purpose inched up my thighs so that the thinnest glimpse of black lace panties is visible. His eyes gorge themselves on my body. But I just stare at his face. I'm looking at his greedy eyes and that sloppy, obscene grin. He keeps licking his lips.

He reaches out a tentative hand to fumble at my breasts. I'm looking at the wedding ring on his finger. We have a winner.

"You're married?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

He pulls his hand back as if I had slapped it away. He looks hard at the ring, a plain gold band.

"Does it bother you?" he asks, the anger clear in his voice.

"No. In fact, that's exactly what I'm looking for."

The wet smile returns to his meaty lips, and he is on me. He shoves his tongue into my mouth, and it's all I can do not to retch at the taste of stale beer and cigarettes. He tastes like the floor of the bar we were just in probably tastes.

I push him gently away, even though my mind is screaming violence. He looks up at me, angry and confused. I put my hand in his lap and tug.

"Let's see it," I say and deliberately lick my red lips.

I move my hand from his lap to his head, running my fingers through his hair. My other hand reaches into my purse. Focused on undoing his belt, he doesn't notice.

He works his pants and boxer shorts down to his knees. I stroke his thinning hair once more, and then I grab a handful and yank his head back hard.

He's moaning, "Oh, yeah, baby. I like it rough," and I plunge the knife into his right eye. His moans turn to screams, and his body spasms violently. I hold the knife in his eye socket and begin to twist. After what feels like hours, the screams stop, but his body keeps twitching. I pull the knife out of his face. The sound of the metal blade scraping his bone sends an unpleasant shudder up my spine. I wipe the gore from the knife onto the minivan's gray interior. Or is it blue?

I slip the wedding band from his still warm finger and place it in my purse along with the knife. Stabbing someone in the eye produces considerably less blood than most other areas of the body and making myself presentable again takes no time at all. I am out of the minivan and out of the alley before he is even finished twitching.

My own car is parked a few blocks away. The few people I pass on the street take no notice of me, or at least, they don't look at me long enough to be able to describe me later. I get into my car and drive home.

"Honey, I'm home," I say as I enter.

My husband is sitting in his recliner, right where I left him. I stand in front of him. He doesn't even see me.

"I went out to a bar, honey, and I met another dreadful guy. He wanted to cheat on his wife, just like you. But that's okay. I took care of that."

"Anyway, I feel all gross so I'm going to run upstairs and shower."

I lean down and kiss my husband on the cheek.

"Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you another one." I toss the wedding ring on the table beside the recliner. The ring clinks on the pile of other rings stacked on the table.

My husband says nothing, but I think he's smiling at me. I know that some people would say it's just the decaying of his flesh that is pulling his lips into that smile, but I know better. He's much happier now. We are much happier now. Happier than we've ever been.

So happy.