His Perfect Body
He lies there. Flat on his back. A mere white sheet covering for his modesty. She runs her fingers through his hair. Then traces his manly jawline. Ever so lightly. Admiring his obviously Eurasian features.
She smiles. A serene, satisfied smile. Her natural pink lipgloss glistens as her lips stretch, revealing a row of pearly white teeth, as white as the shirt on her body, and the sheet on his.
She leans in, whispering to his right ear, “Oh, Takeshi… you are the epitome of perfection.”
He does not respond to her enticements. He doesn’t even reply. Just lies there quietly, eyes staring out coldly to the ceiling above them.
“Cold. Too cold,” she continues, feinting disappointment. “But at least you let me touch you.”
She straightens herself up, fingers now running down his bare chest. The smile lingers. He lets her take control, still unresponsive, still staring above into the nothingness.
She sighs, “Such a perfect body…”
The door behind opens. Michael walks in.
“Diana, what the Hell are you doing?” he demands. His eyes fall to the naked Eurasian lying on the table. “That’s Takeshi, isn’t it?!”
Diana quickly removes her gloved hands from the Eurasian’s bare chest, and grabs the scalpel.
“Alright then,” she says to the naked body, tone suddenly changed from seductive to innocently merry, “Let’s find out the cause of your death.”
