Crimson - Greg

Mollie stared at the crimson pool expanding around Rocco’s supine body laying neatly on the white tile floor. Smoke wafted gently from the chrome barrel of the pearl handled revolver she held in her manicured fingers.

Damn him, she thought, that blood is going to be hell to clean up. But the seeping sharp vermillion against the brilliant white of the tile froze her annoyance as she admired the striking clash of colors. Colors could do that to her. She loved colors and once considered a career as a fashion colorist. This, this was strikingly bold, but tasteful--just like Rocco.

Even now, dead on the floor, he looked in great in that cut Armani suit. Great except for the ridiculous look of shocked surprise on his face. That was all wrong. She wanted to adjust his face the way she sometimes adjusted his collar or straighten his tie. Wanted to close his mouth, put his stiff hand down by his side that for some reason was still held in front of him like he was trying to stop traffic. Or block the bullet. Mostly she wanted to adjust the eyes which were as wide as that actor–what was his name? Marty Feldman?

She sighed. Let’s face it, she thought, there were things she would miss about him. And not just his dapper clothes. He was a good looking man, and a woman liked have a good-looking man on her arm. And he liked his women to look good too. That’s why he chose her to be his girl. Well, most of the time. And he gave her extra money to look good too. It took money for a girl to look nice.

She wouldn’t miss his coarseness though. Or the way he talked when he was drunk. Or how he was rude to all of her friends, and had even threatened to beat up Jonni, her gay hair dresser. She winced at the memory. He was really clueless certain things, and she certainly wouldn’t miss that.

On the other hand, he was a man, and a girl needed a man. Even a rough coarse one like Rocco. Needed to feel his warmth close to her and that sense of feeling safe and protected and desired. At least for a little while.

The one thing that she could not accept was that he was a lousy lover. She looked at Rocco anew and suddenly he didn’t look so dapper. She set the revolver down on the counter and opened the broom closet, taking out the mop, the bucket and several heavy-duty reinforced yard waste bags. Typical, she thought, men make the mess and women clean it up.

Prompt: Crimson 6/9/07