They sat across from each other. With each minute that passed the alcohol brought the walls down. Alice told Ralph the dirty things, the secret things. Ralph smiled like a pauper with a winning Lottery ticket.

They finished dinner and Ralph ordered two more drinks. They drank them quickly. Alice lifted her skirt, showed Ralph a glimpse of her black garter. Her eyes didn’t waver; she had him going. He shifted in his seat to adjust his increasing erection, and Alice took notice without letting him know.

The dim lighting gave all of her curves the right respects. Her blonde hair went just passed her shoulders, the tops of her breasts burst out of her blouse. Alice was sexy and dangerous, and she had Ralph breathing hard, had the smell of his scotch all over her. Most books on body language suggest that leaning in or towards the subject of interest is a sign of surrender. The pauper asked for the check and paid the hundred-dollar tab without letting his eyes falter.

They tripped over one-another as they stirred through the door into Ralph’s apartment. He didn’t bother to turn a light on. As they pushed past the threshold Ralph shouldered the door closed. Their clothes fell free in a tattered trail leading into the bedroom. Legs interweaved, they fell on the bed and Ralph spun Alice on her back.

She was warm, smelled of lavender and tequila. It’d been a while for Ralph, close to two years, and he wasn’t wasting any time. His hands went everywhere. Alice responded just the same. She reached up and moved her nails along Ralph’s belly. His stomach was corpulent and hairy. Her hands moved in circular motions. Occasionally her nails would snag the matted carpet that ran above his belly button. Her hands traveled further north until she found his necklace. It was a cheap-looking gold chain that could have been mistaken for something that would stick to a magnet. Alice gently cinched the necklace, pulled tight on it every few minutes, and Ralph choked; his blood pressure rose with each tug of the chain.

Ralph pushed his hair out of his face and wiped his hand on his briefs. In that quick moment he thanked himself for not being lazy about what underwear he had chosen. Any typical day he would wear the ones from last night, or opt for his boxers with the holes in the crotch. Tonight, he had on his leopard print briefs.

Alice had soft skin, the softest Ralph could remember. Compared to the last shrill he had his hands on, anyway. Sandy was her name. Ralph remembered how he didn’t want to kiss her on the mouth. She smoked too many cigarettes and Ralph thought he had seen a cold sore, but it was one of those situations where you don’t want to shift your chances of not getting a piece of ass so you just keep it to yourself.

Ralph tried not to compare the two girls, here in his new moment—rolling around with a real winner, a motherfucker of a lay—but his mind began wandering no matter how much he resisted.

Ralph had met Sandy at the Sunken Steam, a local dive bar that Ralph frequented after the long hours he put in at the warehouse. Its list of regulars filled the place nightly—they all had the common ground of being honest people with nowhere else to go. Some patrons were old and finished; some young and lost. Ralph found it on his way home one night, a few weeks after his release from prison. Ralph became a regular at the Sunken Steam out of convenience.

You could say that’s how Ralph and Sandy had come together. Convenience. A few empty glances and a miscalculated chance smile. The next thing they were laughing and ordering the drinks in rapid succession.

Not like with Alice.

All Ralph had done was ask Alice to go to dinner with him. He’d seen her around the office that connects to the warehouse where Ralph worked shipping and receiving. She obliged with a smile that defined all things sinister.

Sandy had been a complainer—she wasn’t graceful, elegant, or for that matter attractive. Ralph had almost walked away from her. No one likes to have to pull teeth. But Sandy had bought a few rounds and Ralph had that dumb stupid guilt riding inside of him. There had been a mild attraction, and the night had worn on plenty anyway. A “what-the-hell” type of thing.

Not like with Alice.

Alice was willing, smooth, and—worst to come—mysterious. She had a real wild side. It brought out the excitement in him. The whole day leading up, Ralph was on the edge. It was a real challenge not to seem so eager.

“Watch out for that one,” Abraham, Ralph’s stock supervisor, had said. “She’s not like the other broads out there; she really knows how to take a man to the brink.”

“How do you know that?” Ralph had asked him.

“How do you think I got this scar?” Abraham reached up with his arthritic hand, lifted his cap and pointed to a raised white line running along his brow. “She showed me a time, once… That,” said Abraham, “is how I know.”

Good things to come, Ralph thought, good things indeed. He could feel the heat coming from between Alice’s legs; he could taste the salt-sweat pooling on her bare skin.

“I had a feeling about you,” he muttered in the midst of the heavy breathing. The word “feeling” came out like “mfweemling.”

Ralph reached down and took Alice’s panties in his fist, and pulled them back. The thong snapped like a rubber band in the sun. He dropped the tattered panties to the floor and took one of Alice’s hands and moved it down, until she had a hold of him.

Alice caressed him then gripped hard. She pulled and jerked; she worked up a rhythm that almost did him in. Their tongues moved and tangled and dripped. Hair snagged. Breathing grew heavier.

The two rolled on the bed and the blankets caught and a leg kicked out. It swept the bedside table and connected with the lamp. The bulb popped and the shade swiveled down around its base and the whole thing spun into the dark abyss. As it crashed to the floor Ralph sprouted to his knees and came down between Alice’s legs.

Good things to come.

Ralph went right in. It was hot, it was tight, it was sticky and saturated, and he steadied his arms and legs into position. Pure silk, nothing but a dream, Ralph thought. His leg shook like a rabid animal. His rhythm began to match their breathing as he started working her, and he kept up with the tempo. The bed began moving in gentle squeaks.

Alice arched her back and pushed against him, moving with his rhythm. Her fist closed and the necklace cinched around Ralph’s throat. She held it tight, then released. Ralph gagged and grunted. He came down and sucked on Alice. Everywhere—her breasts, her neck, then back to her breasts, tasting every inch of her. His heart was bursting through his ribs. He was getting ahead of himself. Pace it, he thought. Make it last. He maintained the left breast, probing her nipple with his scotch-ridden tongue.

Alice breathed from her mouth, wide open and aimed up at the heavens.

“Blueberry pancakes,” she said. It came out in a gradual whisper, over and over again: “Blueberry pancakes . . . blueberry pancakes . . .”

Ralph’s head popped up from Alice’s breast. He gave a look of confusion in the dark. A hiccup. He didn’t know what to make of it. Still he kept at her, working her hips with his. He concentrated hard and the bed picked up speed. The mattress piped, and the frame bounced into the sheetrock.

Alice moaned. “Blueberry pancakes . . . blueberry pancakes,” it kept coming out of her mouth.

“What?” Ralph breathed.

She moaned louder.

“Blueberry pancakes . . . Blueberry pancakes . . .”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

He forgot how out of shape he was. Not even five minutes in and he already had to catch up.

“Blueberry pancakes. . .”

It was louder every time.

“Blueberry pancakes, blueberry pancakes . . .”

“What… what is that,” Ralph gasped, “What are you doing?”

It was fooling his concentration.

“I’ve heard about you…” said Ralph. Alice kept her hand around the cheap gold chain and applied more torque. Her head was off the pillow, “Blueberry pancakes!” she belted, “Blueberry pancakes!”

“Come on, baby,” Ralph moaned. “Can’t you say something better than that, something other than that?”

“Blueberry pancakes!”

Then it hit him. Memory Lane. That old street from when you were young, the one you can never let go of. And it made Ralph wince. The words coming out of Alice’s mouth put an image in his head. Not one that he was proud of. His smile gradually fell from his face. The booze was in his corner and he stayed hard, but his excitement and his enjoyment began to tarnish.

Police usually contest that fingerprints, nine times out of ten, are completely useless. Most of the time what they end up with are little smudges left behind when someone grabs the threshold or a bookcase in a blank panic, or when a hand reaches for the door brushes the doorknob. Even if forensics can dust a whole house and come up with a hundred different prints, nine times out of ten the print samples won’t have enough matching points to make a positive identification of an attacker.

“Blueberry pancakes!” Alice screeched. Her back stayed arched, she used her free hand to push against the wall.

Ralph cupped her mouth and the noise kept on through his palm. He watched her with wide eyes. “No . . . No way,” he whispered. Ralph’s hips continued bucking, and Alice humped into it, against it, about it.

Ralph took his hand away, “Blueberry pancakes!” He tried covering her mouth again, pressing her mouth hard. He squeezed, and her head didn’t budge. The cries kept on, muffled through and through. Ralph let go again. His hips were moving on their own now.

Alice leapt up at him: “Blueberry pancakes!”

“Shut up!” Ralph cried.

Alice yanked hard on Ralph’s chain He jerked forward and she sank her teeth deep in his arm.

“Oww! Fuck!”

Not like with Sandy.

Alice pulled her mouth off and Ralph could feel the air cooling the bite.

“Blueberry pancakes!!” Alice licked the blood from her lips.

Terror. Memory Lane. Ralph had been quick, and he had told himself that no one would suspect a thing. But he hadn’t counted on the neighbors being home. A daytime job.

“Blueberry pancakes!”

Ralph had swept in through an adjoining backyard and hopped the fence. He was told that the sliding glass door would be unlocked. His instructions were specific: Get in, do it, and leave. And his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He had a debt, some stupid thing that he had to answer for. His solution had presented itself. And it had fucked him. Not only was Ralph’s target home, sitting there eating breakfast but also was his kid—home from school for the day.

“Blueberry pancakes!”

Alice’s voice carried out of the room and down the hallway. It descended the stairwell, exited into the parking lot and traveled past the streetlights and stray animals. The bed frame splintered against the wall, the old shitty mattress screeched. Ralph grabbed Alice by her blonde hair. He gripped hard. He pulled and yanked. He could feel the hair coming out.

Not like with Sandy.

“Blueberry pancakes!”

Ralph swung in the dark, in tempo. It connected and Alice’s head hit the pillow, bounced back, and the noise continued in polyrhythms. Alice was ferocious, intimidating, intent. Ralph was going out of his mind. Sweat was running in his eyes, mixing with his hair gel.

He laid another fist. He drew back and he could feel the blood. He could smell it growing thick in the stuffy cramped bedroom. He didn’t consider once if anyone could hear him or her or not. Alice’s face swelled and split. It distorted and the words never stopped.

“Blueberry pancakes!”

Ralph’s despondency matched his guilt. It crept up just like the point of no return down below where they connected, in and out in and out. He weakened, wilted, all while maintaining this painful cadence. He could feel it coming. It would there soon, and his hips now ached. His knees jerked, his toes cramped, his back spazzed.

Getting closer.

The bloodied mess Ralph had left in the kitchen that day was sloppy. No gun. It would trace back to the source. He had to use something quiet, something certain. Ralph chose to use his blade, a straight razor. Just creep up behind the guy while he ate his breakfast, yeah, and grab the poor bastard by the forehead, pull back and slit his throat. Be mechanical, and keep your breathing under control.

If the neighbors hadn’t been home, hadn’t heard the poor bastard’s son scream—and not just a, “I just saw a black widow under the sink,” or, “I just scraped my shin on the coffee table” type of scream. It was blood curdling, fear-ridden. It was, “Who are you please don’t kill me leave my daddy alone please don’t hurt him oh my God, help”— Ralph would have had more time to be clean about it. No one would have had any evidence of him being there. Panic and more panic. The sudden banging on the front door with, “Open up! Open the door!” gave him the jolt that set him running from where he came.

“Blueberry pancakes!” Alice screamed, and screamed, “Blueberry Pancakes!!” And Ralph matched the screaming with his fists. With each blow, the wet meaty vestiges of Alice’s face sprayed the walls, the sheets, Ralph’s own face and body. Even in the absence of light he could see her blonde hair was now stained. It had darkened, and was sticking together at the roots.

“Blueberry pancakes!”

After the police were called, a camp set up in front of the house. Coroners, forensics, investigators, blue suits, black suits, brown suits—everyone had their turn inside. The kitchen table was overturned, broken dishes and a storm of silverware were sprayed everywhere. The fridge was open; its door hung from the hinges. The man and his son lay scattered with open wounds on their arms and hands, face and neck. The neighbors were all questioned. The one who made the call stood watch of the whole scene, arms crossed, shaking.

Reporters eventually arrived with their crew and cameras. Flashes went off, chattering commenced and suddenly the world was there. Relentless bastards.

As the day had worn on the forensics team swept the scene twice. They had speculated not a single print would be of any use. Too smudged, or they had belonged to one of the homeowners.

“Where is the wife?” asked the Police Chief.

“We’ve been trying to contact her,” said an officer. “She may be at work; the neighbors think she’s at work.”

The Chief shook his head. “Somebody try her at work. . .”

“No . . .” pleaded Ralph.

It was a deputy, some shit-head two-weeks new to the department. He had followed in with the second unit. He found the print. On the counter, next to the stove, embedded in a puddle, was a half of a right hand print—the outside of the palm and the ring and pinky finger—cast perfectly in what looked like a batter that had spilled during the struggle. The batter, a homemade recipe for:

“Blueberry pancakes!”

Reaching point of no return.

Ralph was losing with each thrust, with each swing, with each effort. He could feel his knuckles swelling. He felt the pain when he opened and closed his fists.

Alice still held the chain in her grasp, and as Ralph came back down she twisted its cheap gold into his neck, constricted it down into the flesh. The jugular vein swelled like a condom full of blood. Alice felt Ralph shuttering, both inside of her and above her.

Ralph’s eyes were fixed in a wide stare. Desperate. Beaten. He was a deer trapped in headlights; only this deer was pathetic. This deer knew his fate had finally caught up with him. His exhaustion now handicapped his ability to put up any further struggle.

Past the point of no return.

Alice reached up with her beaten face and stared deep into his eyes. She held the chain with both hands. She watched Ralph’s expression as she turned the coarseness of the chain into his jugular. The skin splintered and tore away.

Ralph gurgled and thrust as the blood came. It sprouted like a tremendous fountain into the wall and it washed down on Alice. It was hot, it was sticky; it saturated, and Alice felt Ralph releasing inside of her, felt his hips move in that fast jack-rabbitting final moment; the firehouse breaking free of a snag in the line.

The chain snapped and Ralph’s arms flailed. He reached up with his hands but they couldn’t get a tourniquet on the wound. Alice lay there watching.

The desperation slowed. Everything slowed. It became a whisper. Ralph let out his last bubbling breath and collapsed on top of Alice. She rolled him over and made sure he didn’t get up. Then she stood and caught her breath. In her hand she still held onto the cheap gold chain. She dropped it on Ralph’s corpse and walked into the bathroom. She showered, taking her time to let the hot water sooth the swelling on her face. Then she dressed, save the ripped panties, which she used to open the front door.

• Short Stack