Everlasting Love

 
        On Hollywood Boulevard, behind the Red Carpet rope, a throng of adoring, fawning fans applauds and whistles, and she, his greatest admirer, his truest love, her hair striped pink for the occasion, her hands fidgeting in the pockets of her fake fur jacket, her eyes laser-focused on the parade of beautiful people invited to the premiere of his film, though none as beautiful as he and, there he is! finally! stepping from the stretch limo, regal in a slate gray suit, a pewter shirt, and a plum tie (although not the tie she’d sent him for his birthday), his eyes smoky blue, his smile aglow with fame, his body delicious and destined to meld with hers for eternity as she’d proclaimed in letter after letter after email after phone message after Facebook post after Twitter tweet, all of which affirmed their psychic connection, their spiritual twinship, including her last message, which promised she’d be at the opening even though he’d secured a restraining order against her after she climbed the fence behind his house, after she slept on his tennis court, after his maid called the cops and they dragged her away and charged her with trespassing, which made her furious, yet she forgave him because she knew he was just testing her devotion, which she accepted until he started dating that skinny bitch Dutch model and she warned him to stop or else, but there she is, that slut, slinking out of the limo behind him, grinning, her collagen lips swollen like a guppy’s, and he holds her blinged-out hand and he waves and waves at the crowd and turns his head here and there as the paparazzi snap their picture, and now they’re just five feet away and she can almost touch him, and he waves again and he scans the crowd and he looks right into her eyes, she’s certain, and he receives her telepathic message (she’s certain of that, too), her message of everlasting love, so bittersweet: You’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine.
        Calmly, from her right jacket pocket, she pulls a gun.