Victims of Shakespeare

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Copyright © 2008 Edward M. Baldwin

hairdresser—with a topaz watch and bracelet that compliments his Atlantic-blue eyes and sunrise smile.

Though in the crowd, they are clearly not of the crowd. Two extras among the ordinary. And as they approach Brad’s recently waxed red Camaro, where he opens the passenger side door first, Billy realizes how unlikely it will be to witness Brad leaving Amber’s side for even a moment this night.

Unlikely, but not impossible.

Billy turns the ignition to the blue Saturn, adjusts his seat to a suitable driving position—or better yet, tailing position—and leaves the parking lot without bothering to allow another vehicle to come between him and the view of Brad’s license plate. He is confident that Brad won’t notice his rearview tonight. He knows Brad’s type well. Brad is probably, at this very moment, trying to keep the conversation light and entertaining, trying to navigate the chit-chat toward words of flattery that don’t appear forced and phrases of endearment that sound unrehearsed. Being carefree, but calculating. Funny, but no joke. Mindful of space, but in an affectionate sort of way. Doing all he can to show Amber how desirable he truly is.

Even though Jacksonville isn’t known for its nightlife, at 8:50 on a Friday, the night is still young for a couple of glamour teens with unforced curfews. Billy follows them to Red Lobster and parks immediately. He assumes the slouching position in yet another parking lot and watches as they pass inches from the Saturn, not noticing the world around them. They’re holding hands now, and Brad actually pecks Amber on the cheek before they enter the restaurant.

Brad is good, thinks Billy. At this rate, they’ll probably leave the restaurant with Brad holding her ass.

He waits ten minutes before following them inside to order a light takeout. He hasn’t eaten since noon, and only now has he noticed his hunger. Inside, he sees Brad and Amber have been placed on a waiting list, but as with any date governed by loins, they could care less about a thing as trivial as a thirty-five minute wait. Billy’s takeout comes before their table does, and he returns to the parking lot after glancing at his soon-to-be prey once more.

Perfection. Definitely perfection.