He stood in the shadow under the lamp, a cupped hand, a tiny light and the sucking sound of addiction.
Every night he’d watched, waited; the thin yellow light driving him crazy with frustration. The window across the street was in darkness more often than not. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know the difference between him and the others. He was different, not just a feasting male with no conscience. He had tried to respect her. “Same time next week love?” The knife glinted greedily in the yellow haze, turning round and round in his hands. He’d show her just how different he was.
Categories: Just Stories