Congratulations on Fingering the Hottest Girl at the Party!

The  coffee in front of you will be cold.  The paper cup will somehow feel chillier than the room you’ll be sitting in.  Detective Jameson will be sitting next to you.  He’ll look tired, the way he always does, but when the women start to file into the room he’ll perk up a little.  You will imagine that this isn’t the sort of line up he’s usually confronted with.

Gorgeous women will be standing against a wall on the other side of the two-way mirror, gorgeous women in party dresses like the one you described to the officer.  They’ll all look slightly different, but they’ll fit the profile you gave the officer: brunette, around five foot six, blue eyes, rich, full lips, luscious breasts, childbearing hips.  To the officer, you imagine they’re just an array of gorgeous women who’d never touch him, but to you one of them will be familiar, a haunting visage from your past carrying piano wire.

You’ll point to her and nod.

“Number six,” you’ll murmur.  Jameson will nod and key a button, then speak into a microphone.

“Number six, step forward.”

She’ll stride forward two paces obligingly and smile at you through the glass.  Then she’ll make a quick cutting gesture across her throat and wink at you.

“You’re sure?” Jameson will ask.  You’ll nod, lump forming in your throat.

“I’m sure,” you’ll mumble into your fist as you struggle to stop yourself from vomiting.

Jameson will nod and inform the officers in charge of managing the suspects from the lineup.  Then he’ll walk you out the back of the interrogation room to another holding cell where he’ll proceed to debrief you on just what witness protection will entail.  You won’t be able to hear a word of what he’s saying – your thoughts will be transfixed on what you saw her doing, the smile she gave you and the finger she put to her lips as she vanished out that window into the night.  You never wanted to see her again, and yet here she is.  Tears will well in your eyes as you struggle to listen to Jameson for even a moment.

Congratulations on Fingering the Hottest Girl at the Party!

Congratulations on Blanking on Her Name!

“Hm,” you’ll say into your hands, crossed in front of your mouth. You’ll be chewing your bottom lip behind them, occasionally running your tongue along your teeth, trying to figure out just what the hell is going on in your own head. The police will be standing behind the folding table, guns in their holsters, badges slung around their necks. They’ll look very, very tired. After several days of dealing with you, it’s tough to blame them.

In front of you, behind a two-way mirror, an array of women will stand. They’ll all be middle aged, white, and they’ll all look incredibly, righteously pissed. They’ll be wearing sweatpants and sweatshirts and they’ll have their hair in ponytails.

You’ll spot the perpetrator in a matter of seconds: it’ll be the third one from the right. But there will be one problem: you won’t be able to remember her name. You’ll inform the detectives in charge of the investigation.

“I know which one it is, but I can’t recall her name.”

One of the cops will look at her partner, who will be shaking his head and tugging on his beard. He’ll have been doing that a lot over the last week and a half.

“That’s not really an issue, sir,” the lady cop will say.

“I don’t want to do this halfway,” you’ll mumble, swatting your hand at her with absentminded gracelessness.

She’ll move towards you like she’s going to punch you, raising her fist and taking two steps, but her partner will grab her shoulder before she gets close enough to take a swipe at you. You won’t notice the movement behind you, you’ll be so transfixed by the woman standing in front of you, a wisp of hair hanging down in front of her face, murder in her eyes just like the night you saw her with that gun in her hand when you were leaving that party.

You got her name from one of her neighbors, and then you forgot it. Now you’re worried that you’ll come off as rude after you finger her for the murder of that middle aged fellow who seemed absolutely horrified of her as he begged for his life at her feet.

“It’s on the tip of my brain,” you’ll mumble at the cops, rapping your knuckles on the table while you think. The cops will be silent behind you, each of them considering, inside their own head, how best to endanger you while you’re in the witness protection program. Neither of them will come up with a good method for getting you killed, which will be too bad, because you’re a waste of a person.

Congratulations on Blanking on Her Name!