We met like people do these days, in an app curated by algorithms and loneliness.
His name was Theo. Smiled with his mouth closed. Wrote complete sentences. Knew how to flirt without being gross. Said he liked horror movies and red wine.
He was my 7th date in the past year.
We agreed on a Thursday night dinner. Somewhere busy enough to feel normal, dim enough to pretend it wasn’t.
He picked the place.
It was charming, vintage wallpaper, too many candles, mismatched chairs. A waitress with purple hair poured water and winked at me like she knew something. Theo laughed at my jokes. His hands didn’t shake when he sipped his drink. He didn’t blink too much. He marked all the checks a good girl could require.
I excused myself halfway through the meal.
When I came back, his hand was on my glass. He apologized. Said he was just moving it to make room for the dessert.
I nodded, shrugged, then I drank the rest of my water.
The waitress returned, carrying a plate of rich chocolate mousse sprinkled with sea salt and espresso shavings. We shared it, two spoons, one bowl, the kind of thing that looks romantic on paper. It reminded me of date#1.
He insisted on paying.
Outside, the air was sharp, the kind that makes your breath hang in little clouds. One of those early spring nights that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be winter still.
He took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “You’ve got a beautiful dusting of goosebumps along your skin, but I don’t want you catching a cold.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
He leaned in, eyes questioning and I closed the gap between us.
His lips were warm, tentative. The kind of kiss that had been practiced in mirrors, soft and slow. His fingers brushed the nape of my neck and I thought, with a couple more practices this could lead to something real.
He asked if I wanted to come back to his place.
He lived in the neighborhood. His apartment was at the end of the street.
Said it quietly, testing the waters without wanting to scare me off.
I stared at him for a moment.
He was good-looking.
Had a pretty smile. Kind eyes. Steady hands.
It had been a while since I’d been with someone.
„Sure.”
He caught my gaze and smiled again, slower this time, like he noticed the pause, but didn’t mind it.
“It’s a five-minute walk. I’ll have you back in warmth in no time.” he said, pleased but not surprised.
We walked hand in hand, our footsteps syncing like we’d rehearsed.
His coat still on my shoulders.
It smelled like cedar and cologne, the same subtle blend date#4 wore.
Back when the media still thought the murders were random.
There was something delicate about the way he touched my lower back as we crossed the street.
Like he was guiding me. Like he thought I’d need help knowing where to go.
Men like him always think they’re leading.
He talked about how safe the neighborhood felt.
Mentioned how rare that was these days.
We passed a florist that had already closed for the night.
He paused, said something about peonies and how they were „underrated.”
Date#5 had peonies tucked into her coat pocket.
She said for good luck.
Nice girl. Wide smile. Dust of freckles across her nose.
He was playing with pieces of a puzzle he didn’t understand.
Copying moments he hadn’t earned.
His apartment was clean.
Nothing out of place except the faint smell of bleach in the bathroom and the drawer in the hallway that didn’t close all the way.
I kicked off my heels, shifting my weight onto bare feet.
I caught myself on the sofa’s armrest, blinking as my vision became hazy.
A dull hum settled behind my ears, faint but persistent, like a distant engine idling.
Theo noticed, his fingers tightening briefly on my waist, steadying me. “Everything okay?” His voice was low, easy, a whisper against my clammy skin.
“Fine.” I blinked, willing the room back into focus.
He moved to the kitchen, opening a drawer, the scrape of metal against wood loud in the quiet apartment. I followed, the floor cold beneath my feet.
Theo pulled out two glasses and a bottle of red wine from the counter. The label was worn, unreadable.
I asked for a glass of water instead, as I let my body collapse into the sofa, the cushions swallowing me whole.
“Wine will make it hurt less. Tastes better, too.”
His voice drifted through the haze, soft and distant, like it was coming from underwater.
He kept talking, his words wavering, twisting in and out of clarity, like a half-remembered melody that’s just out of reach.
I tried to steady my breathing, but the room tilted again, harder this time, and my limbs felt heavier, slower, like I was sinking in slow motion.
He brushed my hair behind my ear, fingers slidding down my neck, resting pressure on my racing pulse. Theo’s voice softened, became a low murmur, almost hypnotic.
“Just relax. Let it happen.”
I met his eyes, my lips curved the faintest bit, leaning in just enough to feel his warmth.
„Will you hold me?”
His lips parted, but nothing came out.
Instead, he blinked. Once. Twice. Too many times. The easy rhythm of his movements staggered, a few unsteady steps back. His jaw clenched, muscles taut, fighting for control. His knees faltered, folding in spasms that made him seem half-formed, half-real, as though gravity itself had picked him out. The bottle slipped through his fingers onto the plush carpet, red wine spreading across it in blooming stains.
He blinked again, willing his eyes awake. A thin, nervous laugh slipped from him, cracked and brittle.
I must’ve sighed too loud, because his eyes snapped to mine, confusion flaring across his face, panic threading the edges of his vision.
I pushed myself up, stepping toward him, a guiding hand on his shoulders.
„You hold on better than date#2. But then again… all that grease and sugar coursing through him…too much sludge in his blood. Some people just refuse to cooperate.”
A wet wheeze escaped him as he sank to the carpet, arms trembling, trying to clutch at anything solid.
I lowered myself onto the floor next to him, legs crossed, close enough to taste the raw edge of his panic. His eyes found mine, anger and fear twisting together in a tight, unstable knot.
„If you’d done your homework better, you’d know that Rohypnol hits people differently. I learned that the hard way. And then… I tested it on myself. Let me tell you…it’s no picnic! Waking up, memories fractured, time splintered, like shards of glass in the dark.”
I inhaled deep, as his breath slowed, eyes closing, body folded into a contorted position.
„One invests in their artwork,” I murmured, fingers brushing through his hair, „when they aim to create something unforgettable, even if it means bleeding for it.”
He croaked, and I rose, pulling a pack of surgical gloves from my bag, the sharp tang of latex filling the air, anticipation thrumming in my veins.
“That’s the problem with you,” I said, my voice even, disappointment laced with bitterness. “Imitation might be the sincerest form of flattery, but not when it’s this sloppy. Your work is mediocre at best, a mess of half-finished strokes and careless traces you leave behind.”
This is going to be anticlimactic, I can feel it, but necessary. Some poison, corrupt, the craft, leaving cracks in the rhythm. Date#2 was much like him, but I am nothing if not a quick learner.
The scalpel slipped through his skin like a blade through softened butter, his body yielding without resistance. A low, muffled whimper escaped him, instinct more than pain, dulled and distorted. I watched, noting the slight tremor in his fingers, the shallow hitch of his breath, the flicker of his eyelids.
I took my time. Skin bent, folded, arranged itself in subtle arcs, a geometry all its own. This too had to be studied. This too had to be on display.
And I knew the perfect place, where light fell just so, for the world to see.
Part time lover... 