I don’t believe in a new moon. It makes no sense to me. It’s the same moon, rear lit by the sun. It doesn’t fade. It doesn’t split. It does not play tricks on us. It does not lie. We do. We play tricks on ourselves, we can fade away, and we can split. She split, leaving me back lit. I didn’t fade away fast enough. She played the trick, and now I’m caught in the big lie.
Angie was silhouetted by a waning full moon the night we met. The sky was cloud free and the moonlight was like a beacon. The light streamed around her as she stood on the terrace, leaning over fourteen floors of open space. Her long blonde hair caught the light and it shimmered down and was picked up again as it caught the silver thread of her night blue gown. “Twinkle, Twinkle,” I thought out loud as I stared at her from the sliding door to the penthouse behind me.
She turned to face me, and acknowledged my remark with a smirk and a “How I wonder what you are. Hi, I’m Angie,” and with nothing more than that I was swept away into her world. She grabbed me by the arm that night, holding tight. I can still feel her fingers squeezing around my upper arm. The bruise marks are long gone, but the deeper bruises remain.
In full light she had an off kilter beauty about her, pointed and fixed, with a look most models would most likely kill for. When she stared me down I felt pierced to the marrow. She tugged, I went. She wanted, she got it. She got me to do things for her that were the first things I ever regretted in my life. I knew she was trouble, and knew I should just walk away from her. Angie…just someone you can’t walk away from. She does the walking.
Sex with her was what I thought it would be. Hot does not even come close to the what she let loose. A night was like a week, and I’m not complaining. I had never had a woman like her before. I wasn’t a virgin, but I felt like a novice.
Angie had a thing for the moon. This heavenly body was obsessed with the big one hanging above our nightly heads. In our two weeks together we visited four museums and eleven art galleries that had some sort of exhibit including the moon. If that wasn’t the case, after our gymnastics in bed, she’d share her other passion. I learned about the phases of the moon, the history of it’s discoveries, the myths and stories and legends that surround it. She loved the quarters, the full moon, the new moon. She said she felt rejuvenated every new moon.
On our last night together, she took me to a party at another penthouse. A wealthy collector, she said, who had this delicious array of moon themed Objects d’art. Angie’s gown this night was as black as the night, but the same silvery thread wove through the material like the one on the night we met. A living galaxy that you could not take your eyes off of. Me? I went formal, for her. I liked dress up casual, as I did on the night we met. This night, she told me, was special.
The party was lightly attended, but lively. The host knew how to drink, and his guests knew how to as well. By the time the evening was winding down, most of the guest had left. Our host’s wife had politely said goodnight, leaving Angie, myself, our host, and Paul. Angie had introduced me to Paul as an old friend early in the evening. We had chatted on and off through the affair when our paths crossed. Angie and I had been on the terrace, looking at the new moon. When we came in, Paul and our host were having an argument.
I wanted to leave, but Angie grabbed onto my upper arm. She smiled, leaned in to kiss me, and the next thing I knew my head was a mass of pain and I was on the floor. There was a sticky wetness under my left hand, and when I focused I saw it was red. Covered in blood. Looking around, I saw where it came from. Our host was lying on the floor next to me, his head bashed in, and where my hand had been was one of the statuettes that had been on his mantle. I got up just as his wife came into the room. She screamed bloody murder, because that’s what it was.
It was just the three of us in the room. Angie and Paul were gone. She knew my name and screamed it out loud enough times to prove it. That, plus a few other choice words. I tried to tell her I did not do it, but…yeah, I know. Pipe dream. I was caught “red handed,” pun intended, and there was no way to prove I had nothing to do with this. I did the stupid thing, but it was the only thing I could think of at the moment.
I ran. Ran like hell. Ran to Angie’s place. It was empty of her personal items. No note, nothing to lead me somewhere. I heard police sirens and bolted. Tried to get to my place, but the cops were crawling all over it. The new moon was waning, and the streets were dark, so I blended in as best I could. I melted away, trying to think my way out of this mess.
Nothing made any sense at first. I spent a week hiding out, draining out my bank account before the bank got wise and cut off my access. Yeah, that made me look even guiltier, but I had no choice. My face was plastered all over the place. I cut and dyed my hair. Took to sports and gym clothes, baggy and nondescript. Bought color contacts (brown to hide my baby blues) before the money ran out. Wore dark glasses during the day, tinted shades at night. Slouched and put on a limp.
Ten days after I ran, I came across an old newspaper article at the library. I had been searching for anything on Angie. Two years prior, on the night of a new moon no less, an art dealer was found dead, head bashed in. Angie’s picture, with Paul, were suspects but were acquitted. Except it was Jane and Frank, not Angie and Paul. Whereabouts unknown.
Digging further, there were a few more “incidents” of robberies like these two, all just so happening on the night of the new moon. Her rejuvenation.
Our nights of passion were her set up, and I fell for it without knowing I was in for the big lie. It was my final passion, that’s for sure. I had something to go on now, and I would not rest until I found them or the police got me.
I’d rather not go back to jail.