My Response to Writing Prompt Number Two

The last big crowd had left the bar stiflingly quiet at the tail end of the night. She had been sitting on the same stool for hours, and he watched her, brooding, memorizing every detail. She cast him glances, darting, wordless queries, bright and flashing like the diamonds in her ears, oddly misplaced and catching every flickering light from behind the bar. She seemed to sense his gaze, and the tension showed in her stiff posture, her mechanical movements. Her hair, blood red in the lights, was much darker than it was the last time he saw her. The night he was jumped, she was strawberry blonde, her roots darker from the sweat and stringy from the stress of her running her bony fingers through it repeatedly. The memory caused bile to run up his throat and the warm penny taste filled his dry mouth. He took a swig of whiskey to drown the foulness. The last thing he remembered was the sickening crunch in his skull, and when he finally struggled to consciousness he was in a bathtub full of ice with a sharp, nauseating pain throbbing from his back to his crusty, matted scalp. Tonight, seeing her again, it all came back. The strength of his loathing disturbed him. And as he brooded, watching her, knowing from her half-interested glances that she recognized him from somewhere but hadn't quite placed him yet, he knew he had to act fast or risk losing the opportunity. She paid her tab and slithered off her seat, sinuous as the alley cat she was. He followed her out into the chirping summer night, silent and dark as his intentions.