An Old Deal by David Rose

And he met her, all tight red dress and blood sharp stilettos, on the night of the full moon at the Crossroads Club. 

I need love, he told her. She smiled, rosy lips slightly wet, a serpentine smile. 

I am wealthy. I am healthy. I have no violence in my bones nor hatred in my heart. 

A shame, she may have whispered. 

But they do not love me, he said. They love the life, the trips, the fine clothes, but they do not love me. I cannot trust them. 

It is not enough, she said, balancing between question and statement as she delicately shifted the umbrella in her cocktail with her elegant tongue. 

I want them to love me. For what’s inside, he added, for -- above all -- my heart. 

Of course, she smiled, Then you have come to the right agency, we shall find you exactly what you desire. Our extensive database of souls and our meticulous inquisitors of character and our counsels of image will find you the perfect match. 

Where do I sign? he hurriedly asked. 

And she had the warm, quaint paper contract ready for him and a pen in her perfectly manicured hand. He paid his money and they asked him questions. He paid his money and they manicured his thumbs, whitened his teeth and stretched his spine. He paid his money and they showed him pictures and videos of women whom he loved for their looks, their bodies, their laugh and their words. 

He chose many, spoke to some, met few and decided on one. Not too strong of opinion, not too young, not too beautiful. One he could trust. 

And they were happy for a while. She loved him and would sleep on his chest, tapping gently along to his serene, beloved heart. 

Then the door was broken off its hinges by the environmental officers, investigating the foul smell, responding to the call by a beautiful, raven-haired neighbour. They found her first. Sitting in reverence, smiling in rapture, cross-legged on the floor. As they whispered into her deaf ears, they stumbled over the opened up cadaver, empty of insides, before the bookcase empty of books. 

Beautiful, isn’t he, she told them. I loved him, she said as her eyes rose from the lumps of flesh and offal on each shelf to the heart, in pride of place on the topmost shelf. I loved him how he wanted to be loved.

David Rose writes and lectures in philosophy and although he has moved about a bit has been settled as a southerner in what he calls ‘the northern wastes’ of Newcastle upon Tyne, England for some time with his wife and half-Italian kids. He has published widely in philosophy, some youthful flirtations with poetry, and, last year, published a short horror story, Onryo, in Dark Lane Anthology Volume 5. He has also written a novel available on Amazon, A Day Before Tomorrow, One Day After Yesterday, an urban gothic mash-up of M R James and Lars Von Trier and is happy to share it for free in return for reviews.