Hidden Eyes

.01 | The Thrill

Perspective: Unknown
The Thrill

Skirts swirling around her ankles in the dark, she wandered towards the tables that lined the walls. On each there was a tiny candle that provided the only radiance to the corner. Otherwise, the rest of the room was lit by pulsing lights, timed to the beat of an electric type of music that assaulted her sensitive ears.

She kept calm though. This elegant woman was in her element; this organized chaos was where she belonged. Here she could slip between party-goers and flick off prizes from their purses and pockets. The drunk ones were the easiest, with their clumsy movements, and general boldness. She targeted them towards the end of her run, finding it easy to slip her tiny hands into their pockets and take out what may be residing comfortably within. Sometimes she only got pocket lint, for they had spent all their week's pay on drinks for their friends.

The crowd was thinner towards the tables, and only a few were actually sitting at them. She smiled to a young man that looked her way, casually dropping herself into a seat that accompanied a table nearby. She grabbed at one of the clutches that were discarded across the table and opened it with ease. Her mind replayed the simple words she always said to keep herself calm; This is my purse. Shuffling through the contents with a hand, she found a few dollars buried under a mound of tissues, and a couple expensive lipstick cases.

She stared at the white of the tissues, wondering why they had been stuffed into the clutch, and why so many. Perhaps it was allergies (it was late summer after all), or maybe her date had left her to grind with another woman. Perchance that one had less clothing than the owner of the miniature purse, or maybe more.

Each item held a story. Every tiny thing she stole or viewed had a different meaning to the owner, and she loved to piece together the clues. Looking up across the dance floor, past the crowd and the blinding lights, she wondered which well-dressed lady owned the clutch.

That was why she did it, really. It wasn't for the things she stole, no, it was for the stories that were hidden inside each little bag or pocket. The money was only a bonus to her. She took great fascination in the day-to-day life of other people, and always had an overwhelming feeling of sonder when walking the streets. Each person had their lives, and she was just a little piece, a girl sitting beside them on the bus, or standing out in the cold waiting for the traffic signal to change. She wanted to know each detail, so she perfected her art of observation and reasoning and hit the clubs. She found this was where people were most vulnerable.

She tilted the purse in her hands, feeling the smoothness of the fabric inside, and the softness on the interior of the bag. It was an expensive clutch, judging from the labeling, but it felt old and overused. Her mind set out to solve the mystery of this woman, and was already racing at several different possibilities as to why the clutch was rugged.

"What are you doing with Leslie's little pursey," a man whispered into her ear, his breath rank with vodka and other foul drinks. He put a damp, sweaty hand on her shoulder, more leaning rather than clamping down on her skin. She froze, blinking as her mind emptied. This was all that mattered. Lie, she whispered to her mind.

"I am only holding it for her. She's been afraid of people stealing it," she smiled, ducking from his hand and turning in her seat to face the man.

He had hooded, shadowed eyes. Threatening eyes. His face, discolored by the rainbow of lights, seemed to have a bit of stubble, and his hair was dark like the blue-ish sky outside the windows.

"Wellll you should give it... To her? Or no, to me. I'm her boyfriend," he puffed up as he said this, "Just got together tonight." 

So she may have recently lost a lover, she thought as she stared into the blue eyes of the man. He's likely a fling for the night. She suppressed a smile at her findings.

"Okay, have fun," she said, pressing the clutch onto the table, her nails reaching in to snatch out the five or so dollars she had found earlier. With smooth movements, she slipped the money into the top of her black dress, away from his unfocused eyes.

In a moment, she was gone, already moving with graceful steps across the dance floor, her fingers finding unguarded pockets.

The man was left at the table, his head wagging side to side, looking for Leslie with what may have been victory in his eyes.

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Author's Note:
First off, hello! I'm super excited to begin this book. The characters are based on people I hold very dear, and I hope you enjoy how wonderfully unique they are. Thanks for reading!