Peppermint

Originally published at Old 67, now closed.

***

The rubber soles of his tennis shoes melted to the pavement. His girlfriend had hated those shoes, said he should wear something more professional. He squatted down, sweat soaking his jeans—only partially from the sweltering temperature. It was hot enough to kill him.

If he were still alive.

His shaking fingers fumbled with his laces (double-knotted, of course). He could hear her getting closer, her stilettos clicking steadily against the pavement like a wall clock.

The knot released. He tugged at the loose lace and ripped his foot from the shoe, then went to work on his left one, his nails digging into the knot.

She was close, now.

He was too concerned with the goddamn laces to remember the perfume his girl had been wearing the night he’d killed her—vanilla and peppermint. If he had remembered, he would have noticed that same smell behind him before her nails slid across his neck.

He saw the bruises still painted onto her face before she grinned (sharp teeth, Jesus sharp teeth), and the pain began.

For all eternity he would smell cool peppermint against blistering hellfire.