pasty face killah

skin the pallor of children's paste. shellacky inked hair. skin tight black tee and jeans draped over a skeletal frame.

he sits outside holly's donuts, mourning the dregs of a long gone cup of coffee. the joe he finished hours ago, along with the sugar twist and a half pack of unfiltereds.

most passersby don't catch his gaze- glassy, vague, unfocused.

but he always has a lopsided smile and a 'hello gorgeous' for slim.

his words curdle her in a visceral way. she hugs my legs, buries her face between my knees, as if wishing i wore layers of petticoats under which she could hide. i think if there were a short cut back to my womb, she would take it.

he doesn't seem to notice her aversion or anyway doesn't mind. so we're stuck repeating this awkward kabuki every morning.

until the night when my viewing of 'wonderboys' was interrupted by the wail of sirens. outside my window, a swarm of cops and ambulances descended. i thought 'vitellos' had been robbed. but i hadn't heard gunshots.

the next morning brought yellow tape and a makeshift shrine and every t.v. news van from nbc to telemundo. our old a.m. routine was replaced with a new one. called 'dodge the reporters.'

they chattered at us- "did you know robert blake?" "was he a good neighbor?" "do you think he's a murderer?"

i just tugged slim's hand and replied- "we're late for donuts."

now, they're back, taking the jury on a fieldtrip to the crime scene. which happens to be my backyard. i watch the delighted jury members mill about the infamous restaurant as i type. they looked flushed and happy, like tourists just in from the heartland.

slim nudges me. "is this about the pasty faced creepy guy who killed his wife?"

"yes."

"i never liked him."