Page 4 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

This is fine. Totally fine. Public servant work isn’t always glamorous. Sometimes you scrub toilets. Sometimes you smile at a man with buffalo sauce in his mustache while calculating how deep a shallow grave needs to be for full decomposition.

“That’s such a thoughtful compliment,” I purr, folding my napkin. “Tell me, how often do lines like that work for you?”

He grins. “More than you’d think.”

I bet. I bet he does just fine with the kind of women who never got taught what red flags were. The kind who think they’re supposed to laugh it off, just be cool, don’t be dramatic. Women like I used to be. Before Walter.

“Wanna dance?” he asks, gesturing at the battered jukebox by the wall.

I glance around. There’s no dance floor. Just a beer-sticky patch of laminate near the bathrooms that might once have hosted line dancing before someone rage-peed on it during a Kid Rock cover.

“You can pick the song,” he adds.

“Wow. A modern gentleman,” I say.

He beams. And then, he gestures at the slot. “You got cash for the jukebox?”

I stare.

He wants me to pay. For the jukebox. On a date he picked. At a bar I hate. After insulting my entire astrological chart and most of my body.

“Of course,” I say, fishing out a bill. “It’s the least I can do.”

Because I’m a public servant. Because heroes make sacrifices. Because no other woman should ever have to endure this man licking wing sauce off his thumb like it’s foreplay.

I select Patsy Cline. Obviously.

He tries to dance. He grabs my waist like he’s never touched a human woman before, just VR titties and the vague memory of prom.

I sway. I smile. I make a mental note to swing by Home Depot for lime.

He leans in. Breath like IPA and Axe body spray. “You’re not like other girls,” he says.

I lean closer, lips just by his ear. “No, Derik,” I whisper. “I’m worse.”

He doesn’t hear me. Or he thinks “I’m worse” is some half-assed kink signal, because now he’s nuzzling my neck like a drunk iguana trying to tongue-kiss a lava lamp. Jesus tapdancing Christ.

I pull back. Not dramatically, just enough to set a firm, dainty little boundary like the well-mannered reaper I am. “Sorry,” I say, as I return to the table smiling like a snake in a sunhat at a church picnic. Pure, weaponized Southern hospitality. “I have a personal policy. No kissing on date one.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Seriously?”

“Mmhmm,” I nod, sipping my ginger ale like it’s a holy elixir of virtue and not a palate cleanser between rounds of male idiocy. “Four-date minimum before any hanky-panky. Exceptions only apply to spontaneous sonnets or if you’re actively fleeing Interpol. You, darling, are barely beating the ‘sentient trash bag’ threshold.”

He stares like I just outlawed blowjobs and bacon in the same breath. Then, the gears start turning, slowly, painfully, and he smiles.

“I respect that,” he says, which is Red Flag Five, because it’s always said by men who don’t.

I pluck a napkin from the table and hand it to him like a peace offering. “You’ve got… DNA on your face.”

He wipes his mouth with a grunt, misses most of it, and smears the rest down his chin. I’ve seen frat house carpets with better hygiene.

“Well,” he says, “if we’re not making out, you wanna maybe head to my place and watch a movie? Got a killer setup. Big screen. Leather couch. All the John Wick films.”

Oh, honey. “That’s sweet,” I say, reaching for my purse. “But I don’t go home with men I’ve just met. You might be a serial killer.”

He laughs. “What are the odds?”

“Oh, higher than you think.” I stand, toss a twenty on the table for my soda and his shame, and smooth my skirt like I’m prepping for a prayer circle, not homicide. “But you’ve made it to date two territory. Congratulations.”

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