“A bit old for trick-or-treating, eh?”
“Depends on the treat,” she shrugs.
I don’t have anything, no one comes here.
That spooky house children run past?
Mine.
That weirdo who lives there, probably a retired serial killer?
Me.
I’m not, though.
“I have pumpkin pie,” I lie.
A bet lost? A drunken dare?
She follows me, sits down, her skirt slides up. She crosses her legs, too late. White panties, something dark and inviting visible through. Seducing, provoking. Acknowledging.
I bring the plate, empty under the lid, but she’ll never know. And the knife.
Like I said, I’m not.
Retired.
