"The Morning After"
A short story by J.H.
On the morning of February 12th, 2013, a man by the name of Connor M. Slayton awoke in his bed beside a fair-skinned, black-haired beauty from the Orient. Her name was Wendi, and she laid in a relaxed pose on the memory-foam mattress. Connor admired his latest conquest, his heart full of pride for being able to tame such a wild woman. Although her public appearance gave strangers the idea of a rather timid girl, Wendi was the exact opposite within the confines of Connor's four room apartment.
The brief time they spent in Les Gens, a highly-exclusive bar on the eastern side of the city, was well-worth the hours he had spent struggling to dominate her. She resisted and pushed back, an attempt proven futile to overpower her partner. A sudden sting in his back reminded Connor of Wendi's claws as they raked downward. With a sly smirk, he took in all of the memories of the night prior, accepting the idea that this was the best "morning-after" he had ever experienced. Looking at his handiwork once more, he burnt the image of Wendi's surrealistic relaxation in his face- the true vision of release.
Knowing that he had a long day ahead of him, the man got out of bed and began his morning routine. A soothing shower revealed Wendi's other marks- stains of red from his lips to his chiseled abdomen. After he had scrubbed himself squeaky clean, Connor shaved away the night's hair from his strong, square jaw. It had proven its sturdiness after Wendi threw a wildly-swung fist at him, her last effort to gain control. It was no use, however, as her date continued on without pause. She warned him prior that she may get rough, but he assured her that he would be able to handle whatever she threw at him.
His face now as smooth as sleet, Connor felt satisfied enough to continue with his morning schedule. He donned a collared shirt, khaki slacks, a pale gray blazer with a contrasting tie of stern black, and a pair of his favorite monk straps. He admired himself in the mirror, taking several different angles of himself before noticing something on the floor. A duo of used rubber gloves lie by the bed, covered in proof of the night prior. He rolled his eyes and quickly binned them, washing his hands soon after. Another look in the mirror, then he was grabbing his keys.
Connor, a young man with a luxurious life ahead of him, looked back at his handiwork, enjoying the sweet scent of copper that filled the air. The look of acceptance on Wendi's face as she took her final breath was sublime, and the caked blood in her hair seemed to finish the piece perfectly. Truly, the woman was a work of art- far greater a thing than she ever would have been in life. Yes, Connor had given unto her the better fate than any self-acclaimed "fashionista" would ever receive, and he was positive that she understood that as her heart took its last beat. Not wanting to destroy the majesty that the silence brought, the Lady Killer left without a word to begin a new day, to enjoy his morning after.
