by John Faugno
He was attractive in a rugged, older sort of way. I think I heard someone say he was twenty-six. I wore my cutest red top the next day, the one that shows off my chest without being slutty. We talked after class. He flirted perfectly, and when he asked me to have coffee with him I couldn’t do anything but say yes. I actually said “sure, whenever.” I was smitten.
The back seat of his car smelled strange. Laying there, I tried to place the odor without success. It was dark out, but I couldn’t see from my vantage. On my back, against the velour, staring up at the ceiling, my hands pinned under me. The shortness of breath was because of the duct tape over my mouth.
He said he was a forensics student like me. He would know how to leave no evidence. It smelled of formaldehyde. “Sure, whenever” make poor last words.