“Would you like another one?” The man sitting at the
bar offered a drink to the beautiful woman next to him.

  “Ah. I don’t think so, I’m getting tipsy,” she said.

  “That’s what Friday night is for,” he chuckled.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” The stranger beauty
sais in a seductive tone while playing with the empty glass
in her hand.

  “I enjoy your company and I do anything to prolong its

  “Hum. Why am I so skeptical of your intentions then?”
she sneered.

  “That’s because you’re so cynical. I like that in a

  “What else do you like in a woman?”

  “Intelligence is my favorite virtue. It may sound cliché’
but it’s true.” He then signaled the bar tender and
ordered two more of the same drinks.

  “Let me see if I understand it correctly. You’re half
drunk in a bar on a Friday night and interested only in my
intelligence? Obviously my damn cleavage is not doing
the trick.”

  He grinned.

  “What do you do?” She asked.

  “I’m a businessman.”

  “What else do you do in addition to making money and
picking up intelligent women?”  

  “I read sometimes.”

  “Hum. What do you read?”

  “True crimes stories, I’m fascinated by criminal minds.”  

  “How interesting, I write crime stories.”

  “You write fiction. Obviously you have a criminal mind
which is adorable in a woman but there is a big difference
between true crimes and fictional stories.”

  “But I’m good; I can make readers believe they’re
reading true crimes.”  

  “It’s not the same my dear. Fiction never replicates

  “Define real,” she carped.

  “What’s happened is reality and what’s happening is
also real.” The man reasoned.

  “My crimes happen in my imagination first, so they’re
real. Reality is a matter of perception and not timing.  I
visualize how a crime may happen and victims willingly
conspire with me to carry out my plots. At the end, every
piece of the puzzle magically falls into place. Past,
present or future tense has no bearing on reality.” She
defended her craft,

  “Hum. You really are passionate about writing, aren’t
you? ” He whispered his slurred words in her ear. He
could almost taste her earlobe.

  “Life without passion is not life.” When she twirled the
half empty glass in her hand, she gently caressed his
face with a wisp of her hair.  

  “You inspire me, I feel like writing too.” Her scent was
driving him insane.

  “It must be the alcohol talking.”

  “I can write, I have stories to tell.”

  “Remember, if you vividly visualize an event, you’ve
already made it happen. The line between reality and
fiction is murky. The true plot I write is only discovered
only if the story is read more than once, this is what art of
writing is all about.”

   “Maybe I write a romantic poem or better yet a suicide
note, the final words of a man who is hit the rock bottom.”

  “Have you ever thought of killing yourself?” She asked.

  “No, not really, I’m a successful man by any standard
and I don’t have regrets.”

  “Then why would you start from there?”

  “Because death is so final, to me the mystery of death
is alluring.”  
  “That’s exactly how I conquer the fear of death, by
writing it to death.” She grinned.  

  “And we all have our own sorrows in life. A letter of such
nature is a venue to express my despair. Don’t you think

  “Write from your heart, and it eventually touches your
reader’s heart.”

  “Would you critique my writing?”

  “You’re not tricking me into a date, are you?” She was
now gazing into his lustful eyes.   

  “We’re connecting on an intellectual level?” he raised
his glass and toasted.

  “I give you one week to pour your heart on the paper. I’ll
be back here next Friday night.” She then grabbed her
purse, swirled a half circle fixing to leave, “we can go
somewhere with a little more privacy to discuss your
literary piece,” she suggested.

  “And thank you for drinks.” She left the dazzled man at
the bar.

  On their next rendezvous, the rain was viciously pouring
down. When she walked to the bar, he was sitting in his
parked car waiting for her. She sat in the car and he
drove in soaking dark streets for a while without
exchanging words. Then he entered a deserted parking
lot and stopped.

  “I still don’t know your name.” his words were tangled
with the wild melody of rain lashing on the hood.

  “How was your first writing experience?” she smiled.

  “Exotic. I never had the courage to express my true
feelings the way I did here.” He showed her the letter.

  “You just didn’t know how.” she tenderly touched his

  “This is a final testament, a desperate attempt to tell a
story to ones who never cared to listen. It’s so absurd that
sometimes we have to pay such a big price just to receive
a little attention.” He confessed.

  He then opened the glove compartment and pulled out
a handgun. “I even have my loaded gun with me tonight
to truly capture the mind frame of a desperate man.”

  He gently put the revolver on his temple and said, ”Do
you think this is how he would’ve committed suicide?”

  She placed her finger on top of his and pulled the
trigger and said, “This is how I write a crime story.”

She then wiped her fingerprints, got out of the car and
fled the crime scene.