Everyday he takes his seat in Liverpool Street Station, on the bench facing the stairs, large Costa coffee in hand, a newspaper he never reads tucked under his arm. No one notices him, the beige man in the M&S clothes. He fades into his surroundings.
He watches them.
The City boys in their slick suits and cufflinks, the students in jeans and hoodies, the hipsters with their ridiculous beards and porkpie hats, the tourists, made obvious by their bum-bags, cameras and dazed expressions.
They are not the reason he is there.
He is there to watch the women come and go. The stressed Mums with howling toddlers, the old ladies, bent over with age and arthritis, the giggling school girls in their uniforms.
He smiles, remembering his past trophies…
The short Indian lady with a long, sleek braid that fell to the small of her back, glossy black in beautiful contrast to the ivory sari she wore. The tall platinum blonde in ripped leggings and DMs, with her shaved sides and a mowhawk that spilled down to her shoulder blades. The coffee coloured girl with a magnificent wild bush of black curls. The petite twenty-something with longs soft waves of honey blonde layers that bounced when she walked. They were all beautiful in their own way, each a unique specimen of feminine splendor.
He sees her.
Her slim elegant legs carrying her down the steps, dressed as always in a tailored suit. She passes him on her way to the platform, never spotting him stand and follow her. As they walk he catches the faint trace of her perfume on the air. He watches the sunlight reflect off the soft loose waves that cover her back. Copper highlights spark from her deep dark red mane. He longs to reach out and caress it. But not yet.
She doesn’t notice him stand behind her on the crowded train. Her eyes scan the smart phone in her hand, thumb flicking through emails, a tiny crease between her fair brows. As she reads, a sudden jolt from the tracks sends her body pressing back against his chest. He breathes in the scent from her hair, a light fruity fragrance. Soon he would change that to the coconut he preferred. All his girls’ hair smelled of coconut.
She glances back over her shoulder at him, smiling and murmuring an apology for invading his space. She has no idea. No idea that he has been watching her for days. No idea that he knows her every movement, her every routine, from when she leaves her house in the mornings, to her commute to reach her office and then her return home in the evenings.
She has no idea that this is her last day. No idea that tonight he will be waiting for her in her house, his sharp blade in hand, ready to take that glowing crown of red glory from her to add to his collection.
So he smiles back at her, reassuringly and watches her return to her emails, the zesty scent of her hair still lingering in his nostrils. Soon to be coconut.
Read more dark tales here!
Thanks to @cavey2014 for his time!
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