He likes runners best.

Freeze? Boring. Fight? Myth.

But, flight? Exhilarating.  

Long. Lithe. Muscular calves. She was born to run.

He watches the waterfall showerhead rain down, patter matching the downpour outside. Imagines how slippery she’ll be under his garrote. She extends a leg, sweeping a razor up its length. She nicks herself. He salivates at the beading blood.

In a towel, smelling of eucalyptus, she spots him and bolts. He knew she would. He follows.

She stands in the kitchen, towel abandoned. Eight-inch fillet knife in one hand. Cleaver in the other. Born to fight.

She smiles.

He flees.