The best part of her day is when everyone she works with sets off for home or some other dubious spot that lends a sparkle to their otherwise lack-luster eyes. She enjoys her coworkers; feels no animosity towards them but enjoys the quiet promoted by their absence and the residue of relief, even joy they leave, calling it a day.
There is no shuffling, no one-sided phone conversations, no opening and shutting of doors, no murmur of business as usual, just a silent desertion that most, her being the exception, would consider an eerie peace.
She goes about the small office, closing window blinds, locking necessary doors and making notes to help start her next working morning. These menial tasks comfort her in a rushed and bustling world. Her evening tasks give credence to the fact that she has survived another day.
She has kept to the job for five consecutive years.
She is proud of that fact, and she is also proud of the fact that she has maintained her resolve not to hunt any longer, though pondering the drive, which lingers within her mind and tingles along her arms and legs keeps her up at night.
The last successful hunt wasn’t her fault, and that fiasco strengthened her resolve to retire from all the complications and angst a hunt can cause. She was tired, exhausted really, and there he was, ready to rescue her; they all wanted to rescue her. That was the crucible of her hunt; empowering a man to come to her rescue, which invoked her power. Her prowess.
Philadelphia went smoothly, the hunt lasted three years and basically she tired of it and finished it and moved to Atlanta. The heat in Atlanta was excruciating. She felt so mercenary in Atlanta. In each city she had fulfilled a hunt and that complicated things for the next hunt. Her success in Philly gave her too much confidence, she did not research Atlanta at all. The only fact she focused upon was that Atlanta seemed happening sharp, and she was in the mood to fit in. The heat hit her like a ton of bricks and she got messy, greedy.
Minneapolis was just what the doctor ordered. But Minneapolis proved too fertile a place after Atlanta’s heat. She knew change was impossible. Philosophy of the ancients were for chumps and religion too. Trying to rise above the time bending reality of who we are today because of evolution, is contrary to the basic construction and purpose of the world. Humans are humans; some to hunt, some to be prey.
Her hunt began in the primordial ooze, and the creation of an alphabet and a pulpit are props of defense for the weak. In each city there were those who seemed to sense that she wasn’t right. Men who either couldn’t find their socks in the morning or needed that deep mental and heartfelt connection avoided her.
Conversations on Plato or meditation exercises she despised. Prey who talked fables and fairytales as if there was a basis other than deception about it sickened her. No, those were not her type. What brought about her hunt were men, prey, who insisted that she needed rescuing.
Sex was spontaneous to these types of men and well calculated to her. As any huntress, she had her role to play; the desperate moves, the weak knees, her weeping and his inevitable vitality expanding in his chest and the moving of heaven and earth to keep her safe.
She lasted in New York (before Philadelphia) for almost two entire years but woke up one morning, felt that driving urge to make him beg for mercy, and slipped the tiny needle in while he finished his last supplication for mercy.
She was grateful that in Atlanta there was no beneficiary money–not coming so quickly from Philadelphia. That would have definitely sent up some red flags to the densest of people. Philadelphia set her up for life–as wild a ride as that was. She even wondered if she couldn’t become capable of actual love, but she needed to feel him drain, fade away, dissipate. Now, five years later, not really needing to work but needing a place to belong, she had avoided the rescuing type.
She tried hard not to involve herself at all with coworkers. There were too many knights in shining armor or bored husbands to go around. She kept to the company of women in the workplace. Her hunt did not include them. She knew what to avoid; the more expensive restaurants and upscale bars were the happy hunting grounds. No clubs.
The fact of the matter was, however, she wasn’t getting any younger. She still liked to keep that perfect distance in age, but the rescuing type were not frequenting restaurants and bars as much. Perhaps she was finally seeing them go extinct. Though there was the hard working delivery man who expanded his chest when she signed for deliveries. Smelling his mind amused her.
Attempting to keep to herself, she let him know she was not from the area. She could almost hear his mind contemplate her history. Obviously hurt by some bastard, or perhaps the love of her life perished in some fiery crash flittered through his open mind. They would chit-chat about the weather and he would try to make eye contact with her… perhaps on Monday she could manage a little sorrow.