If Looks Could Kill
(Skin Deep II)

7-14-09

“Chloe, Dear!” Cried Shelly Montague, hurrying toward me with a plate of mini quiches. I tried to slip away, but my living room was so packed with people that I couldn’t move more than two feet in any direction. “Congrats!” Shelly screeched, air kissing me on both cheeks.

“Shelly…” I said, racking my brain for the right tidbit of mindless small talk. What is it that people always say? “You look great,” I tried, even though she looked horrendous in the bizarre, shapeless turquoise frock she was wearing.

Shelly beamed. Bingo. “Thanks! So do you!”

I resisted the urge to agree with her. I was looking rather smart in my purple party dress.

“You have that bride-to-be glow!” Shelly added, shoving a mini quiche into her mouth.

Now it was my turn to beam. I was glowing, wasn’t I?

“Although…” Shelly said through a mouthful of quiche. She cocked her head to the side and gave me an odd, puzzled look.

I immediately brought my hand up to my mouth. “What? Do I have food in my teeth?” I asked.

Shelly shook her head and leaned forward so that I could smell the broccoli and cheese on her breath. “Don’t look now, Hon,” she whispered, “but you have a spot.”

I raised my eyebrows. “A what?”

“A blemish, Dear. A zit.”

I literally stumbled backward and bumped into a table loaded with glasses of pink champagne. Three of them fell over and spilled onto the carpet.

“I’ll get a towel!” Someone shouted.

I clutched Shelly’s arm tightly. “Where?” I hissed.

“On your chin—ow! You’re hurting me!”

I gasped and held my hand over my chin. “Out of my way,” I said as I shoved Shelly aside and ran to the bathroom. When I got there, the door was locked. I pounded on it and shouted, “Get out! It’s an emergency!”

I heard some rustling and the toilet flushed and a middle-aged woman in a gaudy gold pantsuit stepped out. “Chloe,” she said, “are you—”

I didn’t have time to chat. I pushed her away, bolted into the bathroom and slammed the door closed. I examined my face in the mirror. Sure enough, right smack in the middle of my chin was a hideous red dot. It looked like the beginning of one of those disgusting, painful whiteheads that take weeks to go away. “No!” I groaned.

Someone knocked on the door. “Everything OK, Chloe?” came a muffled voice from the hallway.

“Go away!” I yelled, louder than I’d expected.

A pimple. A zit. On my face. Two weeks before my wedding. I tore frantically through my medicine cabinet, looking for anything I could use to cover it up; I found nothing. I hadn’t worn makeup in two years, not since I'd cleared up my acne in a… somewhat unconventional way.

I covered my chin with a hand towel and slowly pushed open the bathroom door. The hallway was empty, so I crept over to my linen closet and peered at the shelf which I called my “Skin Care Graveyard.” It was covered with dozens of bottles of foundation, concealer, cleanser, toner, shine-control moisturizer, pore-clearing strips, and Oxyclean pads, all of the countless products I’d tried in the past to clear up, or cover up, my acne.

I piled an armful of products onto my skirt and rushed back to the bathroom, where I applied everything that hadn’t dried up to the offending zit on my chin. I managed to cover it pretty well with some ancient concealer, but that didn’t calm my nerves. I never got just one pimple. I’m not one of those breezy women who flip their hair and giggle and say, “I’ve only ever had three pimples in my whole life! Tee-hee!” No, one pimple was usually followed by four or five more, then four or five more, then more and more until my face resembled a slab of day-old salami.

My wedding was in two weeks. I knew that by then I would be barely recognizable. My fiancé would run screaming from the altar when he lifted my veil. A little bit of concealer wouldn’t be enough to contain the massive breakout which would undoubtedly ensue within the next few days. I knew what I had to do.

Last time it had been easy. I had lived in a rough neighborhood where no one cared what their neighbors were up to, no one trusted the cops and people disappeared all the time. I had been unemployed and unattached, thanks in part to my abundance of acne. Now I had a high profile job and a fiancé, and I lived in a quaint single home in the suburbs, which was currently crammed to capacity with women claiming to be my friends, neighbors and co-workers (although I only recognized about half of them). If I were to literally put on a new face, there would be no end to the people who would notice.

I decided to wait it out. I went back to the party with my newly concealed chin and attempted to mingle like a regular person. I’d spent the last two years learning how people with clear skin behaved. I’d studied them at work and around the neighborhood, mimicked their movements and repeated their conversations. Anyone who met me would never have known that I’d once had an acne problem, let alone ever murdered a stranger in my kitchen and cut off her face.

I put everything I’d learned into practice that night, twirling around my house, offering people more hors d'oeuvres, commenting on the recent weather, complimenting everyone’s outfits, and of course discussing the details of my impending nuptials.

“What kind of flowers will you have?” asked a young red-headed woman who supposedly lived on my block.

Flowers? I hadn’t thought about that. Was I supposed to have flowers?

Luckily, before I could answer another voice called out, “Have you picked the theme for your reception?”

My theme? My reception was supposed to have a theme? Like a child’s birthday party or a high school prom? An image popped into my head of a Star Trek themed reception, with waiters strolling around in Star Fleet uniforms, serving blue liquid and colorful clumps of Play-Doh. I stifled a burst of laughter.

“Chloe?” came the voice again.

“Oh, um,” I replied wittily. “No, I haven’t picked one yet… What was the theme of your reception?” I beamed with pride at my expert conversation volley. People love answering questions about themselves. I read that once in a very informative eHow article entitled, “How to Start a Conversation at a Party.”

The owner of the voice was a mousey young woman whom I recognized as the new receptionist from my office. “Oh, I’m not married…” she said with a secretive smile. “Yet!” She raised her left hand to reveal an obscenely large diamond engagement ring that put mine to shame.

The chorus of squeals that emanated from the party guests was deafening. The receptionist laughed, “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to steal the spotlight from Chloe. Hope you don’t mind, Chloe.”

I flashed her my long-practiced cheery smile. “Of course not,” I said with a dismissive wave. Attention stealing bitch.

As the squealing women descended on the receptionist like a pack of vultures on a fresh carcass, I heard my front door open and turned to see my fiancé, Craig, tiptoeing inside with an armful of pink roses. His eyes met mine and he put a finger to his lips like a naughty child who was attempting to sneak a cookie from the jar. I grinned and floated over to him.

“I know this shower's supposed to be ‘women only’,” he whispered, “but I missed you.”

I took the flowers from him and giggled like a giddy teenage girl. “You’re so bad,” I said, playfully slapping his arm.

“You love it,” he said with a saucy raise of his eyebrows. We embraced and the plastic around the roses crinkled as they were crushed between us.

"I’m glad you’re here,” I said, running my fingers through his shiny light brown hair. “I don’t know who half these people are.” We both laughed and crinkled the roses some more.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

I kissed him, tossed the roses onto the floor and walked outside, without so much as a glance at the gaggle of cackling hens in my living room. I was sure they would find their way out eventually.

We grabbed a bite at a swanky café in town and then gazed dumbly at each other over coffee.

Craig smiled at me and squeezed my hand. “Stressed about the wedding?” he asked. It sounded more like a statement than a question, like he could tell I was stressed just by looking at me.

I shrugged. “Not really. Just looking forward to getting it over with.”

He laughed and lightly stroked the back of my hand with his thumb. “Not even a little?”

I was starting to become annoyed. Why did he keep insisting that I was stressed? “No,” I said. “Why?” I tried to smile good-naturedly.

“Sometimes I break out when I’m stressed,” he said.

I yanked my hand away from his. “What did you say?” I demanded.

“Relax,” he laughed and shook his head. “You have the cutest little zit.” He pointed to his right cheek and grinned.

My hand shot up instinctively to my own right cheek, but I stopped it before it actually made contact with my face. If I did in fact have another zit, the last thing I wanted to do was make it worse by touching it. “Oh my God,” I whispered. I lifted a napkin to my face to conceal it. “Don’t look at me,” I said to Craig.

Craig was still laughing, which pissed me off even more. How dare he trivialize my face. “It’s OK, Sweetie,” he said, pawing for my hand again. “It’s cute.”

“Cute!” I shouted. A few of the other café patrons turned away from their cappuccinos and sodoku puzzles to gape at me. I lowered my head and covered my whole face with my napkin.

Craig shushed me and continued giggling like he’d just heard an hilarious joke. “Don’t worry about it, Babe. You’re still beautiful to me.”

Beautiful to me? That was the worst thing he could have said. “Oh!” I shrieked. “So I’m beautiful to you but repulsive to everyone else?”

Finally he stopped laughing. “No, Babe, no. That’s not what I meant.” He tugged at my napkin. “Come on, put that thing down.”

“No!” I whined, like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. “I wanna go home!”

“OK, right after I finish my coffee,” he said.

“Now!” I cried. I wanted to stomp my feet and throw myself on the floor. I could feel the eyes of the other customers on me, boring holes into my acne-riddled flesh.

A waitress hurried over to our table. “Everything alright?” she asked, oozing phony cheer.

“We’d like our check, please,” Craig said.

“Of course,” said the waitress, scribbling on her leather bound notepad. I peeked at her over my napkin. She looked to be about nineteen or twenty; she was tall and slender, with shiny dark hair and large brown eyes. I studied her face. Her skin was beautiful: the color of creamy coffee, smooth and flawless. There wasn’t a single blemish, not a hint of shine or discoloration on her.

She must have noticed me staring at her because she looked up and smiled awkwardly. I smiled back, almost drooling over her perfect complexion. I wanted it—no, I needed it—for my wedding.

The waitress placed our check upside-down on the table. Craig reached for it, but I snatched it up first.

“Let me pay for it, Babe,” said Craig, reaching for his wallet.

I didn’t reply; I scanned the check in silence and saw that the waitress had beautiful handwriting to match her beautiful skin. Each letter written on the check was perfectly straight and proportionate to the others. At the bottom of the page she had scrawled her name in large, curly strokes: “Becky.”

“Have a good one,” said Becky, stepping away from the table.

“Thanks, Becky,” I said with my practiced friendly smile. She nodded and strolled away with a swish of her long ponytail. I watched her with a knot in my stomach.

“Chloe,” came Craig’s voice. “Give me the check.” I dropped the slip of paper and let it float down to the table; Craig cautiously picked it up. “You OK?” he asked. I nodded. “Do you know that girl?” he asked, gesturing toward the blur of shiny hair and creamy skin that was Becky. I shook my head.

Craig sighed and threw some cash on the table. “Let’s get you home,” he said, holding his hand out to me. I took it and followed him to the door, waving to Becky as we walked past her.

“You know,” I said, “I’m not feeling very well. I don’t think I’ll go to work tomorrow.”

“OK, Sweetie,” said Craig. He kissed me on the cheek and stepped outside; with one last longing glance at Becky, I followed him out.
_____________________________________________________________________

I knew I had to be very careful. There was no room for error this time, not with Craig, my job and my picturesque suburban life on the line. So the following afternoon I left the Porsche at home and took the train into the city. I had brought along all of my supplies in a “Medium Brown Bag” from Bloomingdale’s: a plastic rain poncho, some newspaper, a pair of yellow rubber dish gloves from my kitchen, and of course, a large stainless steel knife with a serrated edge. I wore a pair of oversized designer sunglasses and a scarf on my head as a disguise, like some Hollywood diva from the 60’s. I kept looking over my shoulder as I walked to the café, to make sure no one I knew was around.

I peered into the window of the café and saw, to my relief, that Becky was working. She was carrying a tray of sandwiches to a table full of businessmen who were typing furiously on netbooks and barking into Bluetooth headsets.

Like most cafés in the city, this one was directly across the street from a Starbucks, so I went in there, ordered an iced Venti skinny dirty chai with a double shot, and took a seat with a decent view of the café window. I sipped my drink and watched Becky trot back and forth, taking orders, carrying food and listening to customers complain. She kept looking at her watch, so I assumed her shift was almost over.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later she grabbed a ratty gray backpack and left through the side door. I hurried after her, chugging the rest of my chai and dragging my Bloomingdale’s bag behind me.

Becky sauntered down the street to the train station, which was packed with people. As it was the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, all of the regular train commuters had already come and gone, and the platform was loaded with parents with toddlers, teenagers cutting class, and senior citizens. I stayed as close to Becky as possible, while avoiding the running children and inquiring old ladies asking anyone within earshot if the next train goes to Fort Washington, or if the R2 to Warminster already left.

To my surprise, Becky climbed onto the very train I used to take home from work when I lived in the slums. How very convenient. I sat two seats behind her, handed the conductor $3.50, and moments later I found myself following Becky right into my old neighborhood.

I hadn’t thought it possible, but my old stomping ground appeared to be even more run-down and foul-smelling than it had been when I’d left two years earlier. There seemed to be twice as many smelly bums passed out on the sidewalk, and several more rusted out car shells abandoned on the medians. Half as many buildings were still in tact, and those that were had boarded up windows or fluorescent orange “condemned” signs on their doors.

A scrawny stray dog barked angrily at me as I followed Becky at a safe distance through the corroded streets that I used to call home. I crossed to the other side of the street to avoid contracting rabies for my wedding. Becky went into an old brick building with no front door. A pregnant woman stood in front of it, smoking a cigarette and pressing buttons on a shiny new cell phone. Ah, skid row. I didn’t miss it at all.

I crept into the building behind Becky and followed her slowly up the stairs to the third floor, where she stopped outside of a pistachio green door and put her key in the rusty lock. I walked toward her and she casually turned to face me. “Excuse me,” I said. “Do you have the time?”

As she looked down at her watch I pulled out my knife and plunged it into her stomach (that trick gets them every time). She slumped forward onto me, and I held her up with one hand while I opened her apartment door with the other. I shoved her through the door and stepped into a tiny living room with warped hardwood flooring and three layers of fifty-year old wallpaper peeling off of the walls. From somewhere below us I could hear a couple screaming at each other while a baby cried, and the distinct smell of marijuana wafted in through the room’s one drafty aluminum window. I shook my head and looked down at Becky, who was coughing up blood on the floor. “I’m doing you a favor,” I said.

I dumped my supplies onto the floor and got ready to work. I had been tragically unprepared the last time I’d put my homemade acne remedy into practice, but I wasn’t going to stain my clothes or my purse again. I put on my rain poncho and my gloves and spread the newspaper out on the floor around Becky, who was now unconscious. I jammed my knife into her throat and dark blood poured out over the newspaper, obscuring an article about the skyrocketing murder rate in Philadelphia. I read a few lines of the article and clucked my tongue. “Sick bastards,” I said. Then I got to work slicing the smooth, perfect skin off of Becky’s face. It had been a few years, but I still remembered exactly how to do it. I had her skin off in a matter of minutes, and I wrapped it in my poncho with my other bloodstained tools, stuffed the lot into my Bloomingdale’s bag and headed home.

It was nice to watch my old crapshoot of a neighborhood fade away through the window of the train. As we moved further from the city, the streets became cleaner, the houses less dilapidated, and even the cars looked shinier. I had never felt happier to be a suburban girl.

Craig was still at work when I arrived home, and I had plenty of time to start my acne treatment. Since I couldn’t very well walk around wearing someone else’s face in my new upscale neighborhood, I decided I would just wear the skin for a little while every day, when no one was around to see it.

I placed Becky’s skin gently on my face like a mud mask and sat down in front of a marathon of Law and Order. After the third episode I took off the skin and checked my reflection in my bathroom mirror. My two zits already looked smaller. Happily I wrapped up the skin in some tin foil and stuck it in the crisper drawer in my fridge. Craig and I had never put any food in there because we never bought any vegetables. We usually just ordered takeout.

After a successful day of pimple-reduction, I could feel that “bride-to-be glow” returning to my face. I was going to look hot for my wedding.

I greeted Craig at the door with a kiss and a glass of wine. I hate wine, but people always seemed to be drinking it in the suburbs, so I kept some around to keep up appearances.

“Looks like you’re feeling better,” said Craig, gratefully accepting the glass.

I smiled and launched into my usual mindless chitchat I’d picked up through my years of studying normal people: “How was your day?”

“Hell,” said Craig, “but it’s better now.” He took off his tie, jacket and shoes and plopped down on his leather La-Z-Boy recliner. “What’s for dinner?”

I pulled two menus from a kitchen drawer and held them up in front of him. “Chinese or Italian?”

He frowned. “How about a cheesesteak?”

“You got it,” I said, taking out my cell phone. Suburban cheesesteaks, yuck. I ordered myself a meatball sandwich.

Craig and I ate our takeout in front of our usual Netflix movie. This time it was Die Hard Seventeen, or whatever they’re up to now. When the movie was over and I was scrolling through the Comcast On Demand menu, Craig cleared his throat and said, “So, I know you’ve been concerned about your, uh, acne, you know, for the wedding?”

“Ooh, Robot Apocalypse! That sounds good,” I said, hoping to change the subject.

He cleared his throat again. “So today Debbie told me about this dermatologist she went to when she had, you know, that problem.”

“Debbie?” I said, stopping the remote on “Toxic Avenger III en español.”

He cleared his throat yet again. How many times can someone clear his throat in the span of five minutes? Craig must have been trying for a new record. “Yeah, you know Debbie, from Procurement?”

“And what, pray tell, did Debbie say?” I asked, almost dropping the remote. Debbie, the Executive Assistant with the big mouth and even bigger boobs.

“Well, ahem, she said she saw this guy and she never had an acne problem again.” He smiled timidly and pulled a business card out of his back pocket.

I snorted and turned back to the On Demand menu. “Debbie. I bet she had all of three zits. Poor Debbie!” I could feel my face growing hot. How dare he tell Busty Blonde Debbie about my acne problem! I would have to seriously reconsider my decision to marry him.

Craig cleared his throat for the fifteenth time. “Debbie says this guy’s the best,” he said, nervously twirling the business card in his hands.

Debbie of the Double D’s. I pictured her with her too brightly colored stockings and her too low cut tops, her too long fake fingernails and her too perfect skin… Her too perfect skin. She never had an acne problem again.

Craig spoke and suddenly I remembered he was there. “—an appointment.”

“What?”

“I said, I hope you don’t mind, but I made you an appointment. It’s not far, it’s right in the city.” He held the business card out to me with an expectant grin; I looked at it as if it had just spit in my face.

“You what?” I narrowed my eyes at Craig and he cringed.

“Debbie says it’ll help.”

“Debbie, Debbie, Debbie!” Apparently I was shouting, even thought I hadn’t meant to. “Why don’t you just marry Debbie? Then you won’t have to worry about your bride having acne!”

Craig’s jaw dropped and his face turned white. “That’s not… I…” he said eloquently.

I stormed out of the room as menacingly as I could, went into my bedroom and slammed the door twice for effect. I looked into my vanity mirror and examined the two tiny red dots on my face that had once been zits. Debbie never has this problem. Well, maybe Busty Blonde Debbie could help me after all.
_____________________________________________________________________

My office was on the seventh floor of a high rise in the heart of Center City, which wasn’t quite the oblivious crime capital of America that Becky’s neighborhood was. Plus I happened to know for a fact that the area was lousy with hidden cameras, which the police had used to catch the notorious “Toe-sucking Mugger” a few years back. This meant that I would have to be extra careful in my pursuit of Debbie of the Brightly Colored Stockings and Low Cut Shirts. So I went against my better judgment and decided to make nice with her. It would take all of my powers and all of my skills, but I would have to forget about my fury-that-hell-hath-not at Craig’s prior discussion with her and pretend to like her. Even as I thought about it I threw up in my mouth a little.

My anger and disgust notwithstanding, I trudged over to Debbie’s office early the next morning, carrying a bag of soft pretzels as a sort of peace offering. I took a deep breath and pushed open her door wearing the brightest phony smile I could muster up. Already my face hurt.

Debbie was filing her fake fingernails and chatting away to someone on her headset. “I faxed the purchase order three weeks ago… Well, I don’t care how backed up you are, I need that order by Thursday!”

When she saw me she smiled and pointed to a plastic chair in front of her desk. I took a seat and waited, struggling to keep my phony smile going. I held up my bag of pretzels and she nodded appreciatively.

“You’ll just have to ship it Priority Overnight,” Debbie continued. "No, I won’t give you my FedEx account number!” She shot me a longsuffering glance and I shrugged. “Well, that’s not my problem, it’s yours. So why don’t you talk to your man and make it happen?” She jabbed at a button on her phone which I assumed hung it up and rolled her eyes. “Vendors, you know?”

“Yeah,” I returned her eye roll, even though I had no idea what she was talking about. I studied her spotless complexion and smiled for real.

“Are. Those. Pretzels?” She asked, somehow managing to make each word sound like an individual sentence.

I nodded. “They’re still warm.”

She tore open the brown bag and gasped. “And you got spicy brown mustard! How did you know?”

“Only way to eat ‘em.”

“Right?”

We both laughed idiotically at that for about ten minutes before I decided to put a stop to it by eating a pretzel.

“So what’s the occasion?” Debbie asked, propping her feet up on her desk and giving me a generous view of her lime green stockings.

“I just wanted to thank you for recommending that dermatologist,” I said through a mouthful of pretzel and mustard.

“Oh! Did you see Dr. Kevin already? Isn’t he cute?”

Dr. Kevin? “Actually, I have an appointment today,” I lied. “I was hoping you’d come with me and… show me where it is.” Brilliant, Chloe.

“Oh sure!” she squealed. “I’d love to go see Kevy!” God, she was nauseating. I could barely keep my pretzel down listening to her.

“Great,” I said, grabbing another pretzel and a packet of mustard as I got up. “I’ll meet you at the entrance at five.”

“Okey-doke!” She said with a wave as I practically ran out of her office.

It’ll all be worth it, I reminded myself. Just put up with her for a little while longer… for the wedding.

At 5:00 on the dot, Debbie and I climbed into her monstrous yellow SUV and headed out to see “Kevy.” I had scoped out the building the night before and ascertained that it had a very convenient multi-level parking garage, which I was hoping wouldn’t be too crowded, for obvious reasons.

Debbie pulled her beast of a car into said garage not a moment too soon. If I’d had to listen to her sing along off-key to one more Taylor Swift song I would have had to kill her right then while she was driving, and I didn’t want to cause an accident.

“Pull into that spot in the corner,” I said; Debbie gave me a puzzled look. “That way there’s less of a chance of someone hitting your… lovely SUV.” I forced a smile and felt around in my purse for my knife. Where did I put that damn thing?

Debbie shrugged and pulled into the corner spot. “It’s dark over here,” she said, glancing over her shoulder as if a carjacker was sneaking up behind her.

Suddenly I felt like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. I almost said, “The better to stab you with, my dear,” but instead I faked a knowing smile and said, “All the more reason for other people not to park here.” Finally I found the knife in my purse and gripped the handle, but Debbie still wasn’t convinced.

“Don’t they say you should park in well-lit areas in case of like, rapists and murderers and stuff?” she asked, nervously drumming her fake fingernails on the steering wheel.

I had to laugh. “Do you really think someone’s going to murder you right here in broad daylight?”

Debbie stared blankly at me for a few moments. I could almost see the hamster running in the wheel in her head. God, she was dumb. Eventually she shrugged, turned the car off and reached for her door handle.

That’s when I jammed the knife into her back. She made a small squeaking sound and fell forward. I stabbed her again and again, muttering things like, “I should see a dermatologist, should I?” and “Talk to my fiancé about my acne, will you?” and “Wear a low cut top now, you painted whore.” It felt surprisingly good to plunge the knife into her ugly magenta suit, so I kept doing it, and after the sixteenth or seventeenth time, I felt a genuine smile creep across my face. “Stupid bitch,” I said. “Let’s see if ‘Kevy’ can fix you now.”

Soon I realized that I was covered in blood, and Debbie was most assuredly dead, so I pushed her out of the car and cut off her skin under the cover of the rapist-friendly darkness. When I was finished I sat in the car with her pimple-free skin on my face and relaxed. All that stabbing had left me sore and exhausted, and I felt like taking a nap right there, but I knew it was only a matter of time before another one of Dr. Kevin’s patients showed up to cry about their three zits. So after twenty minutes I took the skin off and cleaned up.

I took off my blouse and used it to mop the blood off of my face and hands, then I put on the change of clothes I’d brought in my purse. I threw my bloodstained clothes into a plastic bag, climbed out of the car and walked down to the train station, where I tossed the bag into a trash can.

I fell asleep on the train and woke up just before my stop with a big smile on my face. I had killed two birds with one stone: I’d helped clear up my acne, and I’d gotten rid of that obnoxious Debbie. It was the end of another successful day.
_____________________________________________________________________

I came home to the smell of something delicious cooking. Craig came out of the kitchen wearing two oven mitts and an apron which read “Kiss the Cook,” and still had the price tag hanging from it. I couldn’t help but laugh. Neither of us had ever cooked anything more complicated than French toast.

“What’s so funny?” he asked with a smile. “Never seen a man cook a lovely dinner for his hard-working bride-to-be?”

“Actually, no,” I said, yanking the price tag from his apron.

“Like it?” he asked. “Picked it up at Wal-mart today.”

“Very kitsch,” I said. “What sparked this sudden jaunt into the domestic world?”

“You were working late, so I thought I’d make you a nice home-cooked meal,” he said with an endearing boyish grin.

I laughed again. “And what’s on le menu, monsieur?”

“Well, mademoiselle,” he said, in a travesty of a French accent. “I’ve prepared a fine salade avec spaghetti bolognese.”

“So spaghetti with meat sauce and lettuce?”

“Mais oui! And French dressing, of course.”

I kissed one of his oven mitts. “Merci beaucoups,” I said. “Ring the dinner bell when it’s ready.” He bowed and opened the fridge… The fridge!

“Did you say salad?” I asked, my smile quickly disappearing.

Craig emerged from the fridge with a head of lettuce in one of his oven-mitted hands. “Salade,” he said, in his terrible French accent.

“Did you put that in… the crisper?” I could actually feel the color draining from my face.

“Mais oui!” he said. “The first time I used it since we moved in. I actually found some nasty old piece of meat that the previous tenants must have left in there. Yuck! Probably some hippie stuff. I threw it out.”

I swallowed hard. He’d chucked Becky’s skin without even knowing what it was. Damn. That was my backup. “Gross,” I said with a nervous chuckle. “Well, have fun cooking.”

I darted into the bathroom and locked the door. Becky’s skin was gone and I’d left Debbie’s in the garage. That left me vulnerable to acne only a week before my wedding. Craig’s discovery of my crisper stash unnerved me. That was too close. I couldn’t risk another victim. All I could do was pray that my two previous treatments had cleared my skin completely.

I was afraid to look in the mirror. I held my hands in front of my face without touching my skin. “Please God,” I whispered, as if any god would actually listen to me. Slowly I lowered my hands and faced the mirror. It took a few seconds for my eyes to re-focus, but when they did I let out a sigh of relief. My skin was as smooth and clear as it had ever been. I was so thrilled that I nearly kissed my reflection.

I heard a knock at the door and opened it to find Craig staring at me open-mouthed, looking pallid and stricken. Oh no…

“Chloe,” he said in a hoarse voice. I held my breath, silently praying that he hadn’t realized exactly what kind of “nasty old meat” he had thrown away. “Come quick.” He gently grabbed my arm and led me into the living room.

“What’s up, Babe?” I asked, trying my hardest to fake a smile. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I sort of have. Look,” he said, and pointed a trembling finger at the TV. The evening news was on, and a photo of a familiar busty blonde filled the screen. It was none other than Dumb Dead Debbie.

I allowed myself to breathe. Craig didn’t suspect a thing. I almost smiled, but I caught myself and quickly assumed a shocked expression. “Is that Debbie?” I asked with feigned confusion.

“She’s… dead,” Craig said in a small voice.

“Dead?” I gasped a little too dramatically. Tone it down, Chloe. “I just saw her!”

“Murdered,” he said, slowly lowering himself onto the couch. “At the dermatologist’s office.”

“Dr. Kevin?” A laugh tried to make its way out of my mouth, but I forced it back in. “I have an appointment there tomorrow!” I sat on the couch beside Craig and covered my mouth with my hands, seemingly in disbelief, but really to hide my amused expression.

Craig turned his sallow face to me. “Cancel it,” he said, taking my hand in his. “I don’t want you going there. Your skin looks beautiful anyway.”

I nodded and struggled to suppress my glee. He was right. My skin did look beautiful. I felt tears of joy well up in my eyes. Perfect.

“Oh, Honey,” he cooed. “C’mere.” He wrapped his arms around me and I buried my face in his chest and breathed in the subtle scent of his cologne.

We sat like that in silence, listening to the news anchor saying that Debbie’s murder resembled four that took place in the area two years ago, and one from just last week. “Police are cautioning women to be watchful when walking around the city alone,” he said.

“No more working late,” Craig said softly. “I want you to come home with me from now on.”

“OK, Dear,” I said.

He held me tighter and stroked my hair. “I love you,” he said. “If anything happened to you…”

“I love you too,” I said. “Don’t worry, in a week we’ll be on our honeymoon, far away from the city.”

“Yeah,” he sighed happily. “Me and my beautiful bride.”

My smile widened. In a week I would walk down the aisle, I would marry the man of my dreams, and I wouldn’t have to worry about acne, or that whore Debbie, ever again.