>> terrible things || [ benjamin | oliver ]
There is always something that draws him. This time, it resides in her simplicity; the softness of her features, the careful way she keeps her hair swept back into a practical bun, and the few strands that escape, trailing down -- details that she must be too busy to tend to. Not enough to be sloppy, but just enough so as not to be obsessive. Dark hair -- he always pictures her with dark hair, though he does not exclusively follow dark-haired women. That would insinuate a pattern, and though there is in, fact, a pattern, it is not one that anyone will notice, because he takes the essential piece of the puzzle.
The skin is the most important part. Hers is...delicate. Fair, with a dusting of very light freckles; she works inside, an office, which leaves her somewhat pale. He does not begrudge her the powder she layers herself in - beneath it, he knows there are dark circles beneath her eyes, the beginnings of wrinkles, the muted signs of stress; but the lines around her mouth, just beginning to appear, denote laughter, a detail he is fond of. She has a kind face, with a mouth just slightly too small for her face, and he would not call her beautiful -- she is plain, in a sweet sort of way, in a quiet, mousy way, and he can easily imagine her folding laundry at home, can picture her standing poised at a mostly closed bedroom door, peering into the darkness beyond to check on a sleeping little one.
This is what makes her perfect, to him. Days pass -- he watches. He rearranges his schedule so as to coincidentally pass her on the street, making himself but two minutes late to his office, and it is a sacrifice he is willing to make because no one notices, no one notices, but he steps past her, and he can smell her, the heavy odor of too much perfume, and the dry, cloying scent of a plain deodorant; laundry soap and powder, and dryer sheets. She smells like domesticity, she smells like home, and he knows. He knows she will come with him, and he knows he will touch that pale skin and soft hair, and he will wash the ugly powder from her face, and map out the barely-there freckles like inverse constellations against an imperfect porcelain surface.
These things take care, they take precision. Minute details must be tended to - they cannot be left untidy, not like the wisps hanging down from her practical bun. While endearing, it does not suit this task. He dresses nicely -- they're calmer, he finds, if he is nicely dressed, if he is poised and polite, because even if he is not supposed to be there, his presence does not immediately inspire panic. The one indulgence he cannot skip is -- ahh, the gloves. Leather, black leather, they look nice with his suit, the colors complement, and come together in a muted, but pleasant, balance.
Dark streets are comfortable for him; he often finds himself on them on quiet nights, because while there is, indeed, always work to be done, he always gets it done in a timely and orderly fashion. No one can fault him for his indulgences so long as his work is completed, right?
---- well, perhaps he might be faulted for some indulgences.
Locks give way for him with laughable ease, clicking softly, and he steps into the home without a second thought; with just as soft of a click, the door closes behind him, and the lock is in place once more. With practiced steps, he moves his way into the living room, pausing and frowning very softly.
It is, quite honestly...not what he had expected from a single businesswoman. That is to say, he is beginning to wonder if his information is, somehow, slightly...flawed. There are...toys, lingering about. Clothing much too small for a grown woman. He nudges a small plush animal with one shoe, brow raising. He reaches up, straightening his glasses and frowning quietly to himself.
She does not have a child. He has very thoroughly looked into that matter. Perhaps she wants one? If that is, in fact, the case, then perhaps...
But no, this does not sit well with him. He turns, eyes scanning the shelves, the tables, any surface a picture might be found -- and he is rewarded moments later by a frame just across the room. Easing over, carefully avoiding the light amount of debris, he picks it up.
---- a young girl and her....father?
Given pause by this discovery, his head cocks as he studies the photograph; a brother and niece, perhaps? Very close? Maybe she visits...But this is the correct house, is it not? He has checked and checked again...could he have miscounted doors in the dark? It is, perhaps, possible, though not entirely plausible. Such a mistake would hint at hasty decisions, at carelessness...Sloppiness is not in his nature, and he finds himself placing the frame down with more force than is, perhaps, completely necessary, and turning on his heel, jaw tense as he debates the situation.
Check the bedrooms, confirm his suspicion and risk losing precious time,
or leave immediately and retrace his steps to find the correct place?
For the moment, he stands, arms crossed, torn.
