He knew immediately the moment he looked at her.  He also knew she was unaware.  His regret was tangible, a piercing ache encased his heart because he knew of her kindness, her sense of decorum, and no such soul should suffer.

Such an old word, decorum.  He felt ancient using it and scoffed at himself inwardly because when he was young he would only use that word in an exaggerated sense.  “Let’s try some decorum, please,” if one of his frat brothers burst forth in an over dramatic way or in an uncouth manner when their then young, male bodies would sound in gastric relief after a night of debauchery.

His nights wasted in such matters were over, just as definitely as were all his frat brothers.
A movement caught his eye; her.  She moved up the aisle toward him and their brief eye contact forgotten by her almost instantly.  He stood stock-still and only let her pass him with difficulty.  Only when her genuine though weary smile changed to a look of frowning hurt did he step back with an apology.  He stepped back into the shelves, his elbows knocking down can goods and the noise brought drowsy looking stock clerks to their vicinity.

He watched her take over.  “It was an accident, no harm done.”  He had enough sense to kneel with her and make a grab for the rolling canned peas and lima beans.

“I’m sorry.  So sorry.”  His voice was hoarse and raspy.  He hated the sound of his own voice.  He kept silent as much as possible, remembering that once upon a time he would sing to crowds of fawning young girls in intimately dark venues where music was as scrutinized and savored as that of the body of a lover.

No longer.

She reached forward, her slender wrist exposed from beneath her coat only for a moment.  She busied herself with placing the can goods back upon the shelf.  The memory of her steady pulse just beneath her skin caused him to shudder, fighting attraction.  He expanded his large hands grasped the rolling can goods and held them in a steady grip, then shoved the cans upon the shelf without looking at what he was doing.  She smelled of lavender soap and a day’s work.  Her fingers were ringless and her makeup smudged.  He watched as she shivered and glanced nervously at him.  He wanted to expand before her, levitate and lift her into his embrace.  Instead he backed away, “I’m sorry,” he said again.

She frowned and shook her head slightly.  “You worry too much. It was an accident.”  Her voice was soft but firm.  She turned without another look at him and continued to shop.  He glanced out the store window, the snow floated down in large lacey white flakes against the black hazy night sky.  A veil of white lace for her lovely hair and face.  A fitting night.  Cold and harsh the winters in this land, the winds so merciless.  What was this beautiful woman doing here?

It would be a cold walk to her car.  Why was she so late, looking for vulgar food in tins and dusty shelves?  Why wasn’t she home, in her bed, asleep with her cat at her feet, both purring with contentment?  Why wasn’t she with a husband; a candlelit supper waiting on her?  Shouldn’t she be in the shelter of strong and warm arms to protect her or next to him safe and sound?

He could hear her hum a tune in the next aisle, no doubt a song of comfort, trying to push away unwarranted fears.  He felt strengthened; he felt as if he could breathe in and pull all the contents of the store toward him, including her.  He felt as if he could walk through the aisle that separated them and capture her in his arms, rise above everything and whirl her about the ceiling with no effort at all.  He could hear the rhythm of her breath.  He could feel her heartbeat, steady and serene.  He could taste…

Darkness is easy to find when the living endeavor so hard to light the night. No one noticed the blur of darkness he became as he took her into his arms, nor noticed her brief struggle.
It’s not beautiful the sound that indicates his search for her life force; the growl, the frigid feel of his lips upon her soft, warm and exposed neck.  The agony for him was that moment of ecstasy every woman offers in opening herself up to a need, even as diabolical as his.  Her shudder, her pity as fleeting and erratic as the flight of a butterfly and for a moment he wonders if this is the one he should keep, if this is the one who would… but no, her terror is too complete and he finishes his hunt in the deepest, darkest part of the night.