*Note: Please no reblogs of this (the pic). Roggy was kind enough to grant me permission to reblog his photo for my Faces of Inspiration series.
The first time I met him, I knew him as an artist. His hands were rough, but his voice was soft. Direct, but quiet. Low and steady. The kind of voice that made men sweat, as they watched their women melt. His hair and eyes were dark, but he almost seemed illuminated by his zest for life.
He shook my hand, though he hardly paid me any attention. He was more interested in meeting my wife. She had that sort of effect on men. I grit my teeth as he kissed her hand with a little roguish wink. My wife, she smiled back. She seemed startled when I cleared my throat, as if she had forgotten I was there, but finally remembered to introduce me as her husband.
The artist, not missing a beat, gave me a small nod of approval. It was subtle, but I could sense his hesitancy to mingle with the other guests. But he was a handsome sort, and most of the women attending the party, married or not, were ready to wrestle for his attention. Except for my wife, who I could sense was disappointed. Even if she wasn’t going to admit it to me.
It was my job to notice things. I had been a detective for longer than my wife had been out of diapers.
That artist, he was cool as a cat though. He didn’t come around again, until the end of the night. He shook my hand goodnight, and tipped his hat to her. They shared one brief but intense connection as their eyes met. My wife blushed slightly. Only the artist and I noticed…
Six months later, she was finally admitting the truth to me. That her and the artist had been having an affair. It had been her idea. He had tried to resist because he was a man of honor, but their feelings for eachother had been too strong. I already knew the whole story. I was just waiting for her to tell me. The cheating whore. I was going to teach her a lesson. A parting gift of sorts. I slapped her once and then the world dissolved into a blur of red. I knew what I was doing, as I hit her over and over again — until she stopped moving. I killed her, and I was glad…
I could see his face, as he leaned over the trunk of the car. He was more of a dark outline really. The trunk had been dark, but it was a bright day out in the desert. He held a hammer in his hands. Not even a gun or a blade. I had written him off a Don Juan type; a lover, not a fighter. But I suppose the same passion that could be stirred, to make love to a sensual woman all night long, could also be channeled into killing an ugly man just as well.
The last time I saw him I knew him as my penance, for killing something beautiful.
Someone that would always belong to him, that he would defend viciously, even if only her honor.