Love's Target

Love’s Target

“Hey, Carol. Came for you,” Justin waved an envelope, then sniffed it. “Smells like love to me.”

“Oh, give me that.” Carol closed the front door to her small shop and reached across the counter to snatch the bright red greeting card from her assistant’s open hand. He smirked.

“You vixen, you. Holding out on me,” Justin swiped his hand at her in a clawing motion, baring his teeth. “Rrroowwwrr.”

“Jackass.” Carol opened the flap, slid the card free. A chubby, pink-cheeked Cupid with a bow and arrow looked her way. ‘You’re Love’s target today! Happy Valentine’s Day, Lover!’ Carol’s eyebrows lifted. Inside, handwritten script. We’ll be together soon, darling.

“Darling?”

Please accept this token of my undying affection. Under the script, a small clump of what looked like . . . toenail clippings.

“Um.”

“What’d he send you? Who is it?” Justin craned over her shoulder, titillated by the romance. “Gimme something, boss. I’m dying here.”

Carol shifted so he could see the token offering. “I’ve been out of the game for awhile, but are toenails the new chocolate?”

“No shit? Wow.” Justin peered closer. “What a freak. What should we do, you think? The police? SVU?”

“I’m not calling the police over something this stupid. What would I say? I’m being threatened with a manicure?” She dropped the card in the trash. “If someone freshly groomed comes in, let me know.” Freaks. She glanced toward the ceiling, and shook her head. Why do I get the freaks? “Back to work, drone. Let’s get that new stock put out.”

###

Hours later, Carol stepped out on a Starbucks run, moving briskly down the sidewalk, idly watching the passersby, the usual commerce going on around her. Busy, for a Tuesday.

She bustled along, oblivious of the man standing under a nearby shop awning: a non-descript figure in a plain, dark overcoat who stepped out into the flow, following her. Eyes glittering, hands in pockets. He drew closer, focusing on his quarry. She crossed the street, passing just in front of a cab, gaining a few feet as he had to wait, but he was less than twenty feet from her.

His heart thumped heavily as he fantasized having her to himself--his to play with, to pet, to taste, to devour. His eyes glazed as he readied his grip on the hunting knife under his coat. His steps quickened.

Carol reached the curb, almost to the door of the coffee shop, when the accident happened. Screeching tires, the sickening impact, the shouts and gasps of witnesses; the cacophony thundered around her as she turned to see him under the front wheels of a delivery truck. His empty eyes somehow fixed on her.
Sirens keened nearby, and a police car skidded to a stop. A crowd gathered.

“Jesus. Poor man,” Feeling ill, Carol worked her way around the scene, looking back as she stumbled toward her shop, forgetting the lattes. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the man’s feet. They were bare, and clean. No shoes nearby. Carol shivered, then turned to continue on her way.