He pulls up in a grey Taurus. His sweater vest is dull orange with repeatedly washed fuzz-balls. Placed over a dull green plaid shirt. Wrinkled black jeans. He wipes his sweat on his thighs. Bald across the top. A few strands in a comb-over above the eyebrows. An un-brushed broom below the bald. His step light on his toes.
He screams ‘I’m a pedophile’. She smiles. He mumbles ‘I’m a serial killer’. Hugs and pats without chest’s touching. Her body knows the truth. Her eyes know the truth. Still she invites him in. He’s so nice. He always has candy for the children. He’s so kind. A book. A new shiny red truck.
I push the dirt under my fingernails. The bulbs lie nearby. Yank out that pesky vine thing for the hundredth time. He’s holding Danny’s hand. Leading him to a flower covered rest. He smiles but his eyes say ‘soon’. I hear the car door slam shut in my nightmares.
I know if I go inside and search my dictionary, his face is there. Right there for all to see. The neighbors will all say ‘he was nice and quiet, kept to himself,’ later that day.
She waves and smiles. Two hours from now she will be empty. Her heart no longer able to love.
I bury the bulbs. She buries her child.
We both have dirt under our fingernails.