There she is, you think to yourself as you glare intently from the darkness of your car. You’ve been watching her for the last few days, looking for some pattern, some predictable time at which you can take her with no risk to yourself.
Yesterday, you sat on the park bench that she always passes at this time of the day. So close that you could have reached out and caressed her. Angelic. Desirable.
Three foot nothing. Long dark hair. Flawless skin. Young, perhaps seven, eight years old. An innocence that you never had.
Her light cotton dress flutters enticingly in the light summer breeze.
So, today’s the day and she’s nearly abreast of the car and you time it so that you exit the car and meet her at the front bumper and you grab her and you clamp your hand over her mouth and you throw her into the car as you jump back in and you start the engine… and suddenly, you’re looking down the barrel of her handgun and she says, “Hands on the wheel, motherfucker!” as cops surround the car.