The Locksmith

He had had to do it. Keys were designed to be used. He came in in the night and stole a lock of her hair. She woke in the morning and thought that there was something different about her appearance but couldn't quite put her finger on it. She felt unbalanced and uneasy, but there was nothing obvious to point to her feeling this way.

He had to severely resist the temptation to enter her property after that. Too risky. Knowing he could had to be enough. Instead, he watched her from afar. It wasn't the same but there was no fear of confrontation, and he was certain that she knew nothing about him.

He knew everything about her.

Oh, but he loved her. Her grace as she moved filled him with pleasure like a gushing geyser; her look of concentration as she studied anything - phone, book, TV, the label on the shampoo bottle in the shower - it all added to this overwhelming picture of her loveliness. The way she selected produce in the supermarket, squeezing them gently for an indication of their ripeness made him lick his lips with the thought of being that fruit and having her sink her teeth into him and derive pleasure from his juices.

He wasn't doing any harm, watching and following. If she knew what delight she brought him in his dull everyday, she would understand. When he was away from her, he got out the lock of her hair, wrapped in a piece of tissue paper, and stroked it with his finger, very tenderly and squeezed his eyes shut very tightly, envisioning that it was still attached and had not been cut off with a very sharp pair of scissors.

The day came though, where he felt let down, sitting as close as he dared to her and a friend in a coffee shop, listening in.

"It's cost me, but I feel better having done it."

"Didn't you get them changed when you first moved in?"

"Yes, but, I don't know, there was something about that locksmith which was off..."

*

That night, deeply hurt, he cried, his tears falling on a lock of golden hair.

***

366 words

Do you trust the people who change your locks? You have to, don't you?

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