Alan Falkingham

How Was Your Day?

When I get home, I strip off my forensics overalls, exhausted. Another mutilated body. This time in a dumpster behind the lumber yard, bloody ligature tied in a pretty, little bow. Karolina is waiting for me on the couch, dressed in sweatpants, laughing at some TV sitcom. I lean in, and she kisses me tenderly, her hair falling forward to frame her face. At the Blue Flamingo she is Miss K; all latex and chains. She does this thing with hot wax. The Thursday night crowd love it, taking turns to approach, like hungry dogs, tucking dollar bills into her boots. But here with me, she sheds her stage skin willingly, and if I smell of death she never seems to mind. We wriggle together, until we fit snugly, holding each other tight in silence, until we are sure the day has left us, gracelessly, without saying goodbye.