She tells me I’m going to die by chili dog some day.

She’s probably right.

Sitting at the end of the bar wearing a skirt that is criminal in its intentions, she rolls her eyes, throws back her head and laughs. It’s a strong, confident laugh that makes the muscles in her neck flex and jump and makes my mind and eyes wander down to her clavicle and I am left wondering how warm it would be beneath my lips.

“Do you always do that?” she asks.

“Do what?”

“Peel the labels off your beer bottles like that.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I guess I do.” And all the while I am staring at that spot where neck meets clavicle and she can’t possibly not notice this, but she doesn’t say a word about it, just sits there looking at me with a slight smile on her face and a raised eyebrow.

“Donny,” she says, motioning to the bartender, “Another Newcastle for my friend here, and I’ll have the same with a shot of whiskey.”

I must make some sort of face because she pauses in her search through her purse long enough to ask, “What? Don’t know many women who drink whiskey?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, just goes on digging around in her bag until she pulls out a pack of smokes. Placing one between her lips, she turns in my direction and waits.

It takes a couple of seconds before I realize she’s waiting for me to light it for her. I pick up a pack of matches from the bar and give her what she’s waiting for. She takes a long, deep drag, holds it for a second and lets it go. A mundane act, which in her hands is as erotically charged as anything I have ever seen.

Suddenly I’ve lost interest in the chili dog, and I slide it down the bar to my left. “You got another one of those?” I ask.

“Take this one,” she says, and hands me hers, which is exactly what I was hoping for the moment I noticed her lipstick on the filter.

It tastes exactly like I expected it to, but with a faint hint of sweetness I’m not ready for.

I wash it down with a long swallow of beer.

Procol Harum skips the light fandango on the jukebox as she downs her shot of whiskey, and suddenly it occurs to me that this is one of those moments. One of those golden moments that come along so rarely that we are never quite ready for them, and because we are unprepared, fail to act on. I make a decision in those few seconds to act on this one.

I slap a twenty down on the bar. “Let’s go.”

“What makes you think I’m going anywhere with you?” she asks. But it’s just a formality because she’s already gathering up her purse and sliding back the bar stool.

I try not to let my eyes linger too long on her legs, but she catches me looking anyway.

"Answer one question for me,” she says.

We make eye contact and I nod.

"What do you love?"

It’s a good question. I try not to skimp on the answer.

“I love Elvis,” I say, “I love singing along to the radio in the car. That moment of discovery when you learn something new. The first two albums by The Doors. I love rainy spring days. You know, the kind where it rains steadily all day long, and the trees and the grass are just heavy with it, and everything is so green. And that smell, that smell of wet earth. Creativity and people who are just a little odd. Tossing the covers aside and sleeping nude under the breeze from the ceiling fan.”

I pause for dramatic effect. “And I love the way you’re looking at me right now.”

She doesn’t say another word, just stands up and heads for the door. I follow, and squint in the light that spills in from outside. The sounds of the jukebox give way to the sounds of traffic and the chatter of life. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm is bleating out a monotonous rhythm.

She turns and looks at me, and in the bright light of day, I can see just how flawless her skin is.

A few hours later, she’s standing naked at the window, looking out at the people milling about below. I walk up behind her and slip my arms around her waist.

“Mmmmm…that was wonderful,” she says, “you’re wonderful.”

I run my hands up her sides and over her shoulders. She presses back against me, a sigh escaping from her.

She goes stiff as I wrap my arm around her throat, and struggles when I apply pressure. But the struggle doesn’t last very long, and she soon goes limp in my arms. I lay her down gently on the floor and drag her into the bathroom.

Moments later, I am holding her clavicle in my hands. Stripped of flesh, and awash in her blood, I place it to my lips and it’s just as warm as I imagined it would be.

That might be the creepiest thing I've ever read.

The twist was truly shocking and more tha a little jarring -- in exactly the way that was intended, to be sure. Good dialogue. Very natural.

Chris = Chad.

Got it.

(Okay, that was an easy quip. I rather liked the piece overall. Very atmospheric.)

Very cool. But what about the chili dog?