Latex covered hands assorted the pictures on the desk before him, he arranged them first by content then, changing his mind, put them in order of preference. Taking his time to look over each image carefully, appreciating the nuances of each grainy photo.
“Wish I could have used a flash, at least on the ones in the bedroom,” he thought, reflecting back on the exhilaration he’d felt as he’d taken pictures of his ‘victim’, so still, so unsuspecting and totally at his mercy.
The pictures taken in the living room were much better, he’d felt safe enough to turn on a small lamp so the picture quality was significantly enhanced, however, he kept going back to the lower quality, dimmer images taken of Thelma. On a pad to his right he carefully wrote under a header he had already scrawled and underlined across the top that read:
Next Outing
extra Polaroid film and camera (disable flash)
small digital camera (check batteries)
thin nylon rope
hunting knife — sharpen
gloves (no powder)
new socks
cloth and alcohol
backpack (electrical tape over metal)
He sat back in his chair, tapping the side of his jaw with the pencil, “What else, what else?” he said, closing his eyes and trying to imagine what was missing from the first ‘outing’.
He hadn’t thought he would enjoy it as much as he did, the excitement of being in someone's home had always been a thrill but being there while they slept was ‘magical’. Beyond that, taking their picture seemed so much more invasive, exponentially more personal than merely stealing a few valuable items, getting in and out as quickly as possible.
Last night had gone better than he had planned but looking back he knew he could improve. The information he had received had been valuable, the layout of the house was exact, the area dark and quiet, door had been unlocked — no need to use the key they had provided, no dogs or children. He hated little unexpected surprises in this line of work, but he was always prepared for such emergencies or at least he thought he was.
He’d made a career as a burglar all over Southern Georgia and had managed to avoid capture thus far, and had no intention of spending any time behind bars in the near future. Always waiting for one big score, a valuable diamond, a gold brick, anything that would bring big bucks. Who would have known that his big score would involve putting on women’s underwear in the dead of night then taking pictures of himself as he went. He’d been instructed only to take the one picture to be left behind on the pillow but once he got started he kind of got carried away.
Putting on the clothing was, at first, odd and uncomfortable but doable; it was the taking of the pictures that he had not expected to give him such a rush. Looking back at the images splayed before him he reached for his favorite, very grainy but still enough in focus to make out what was captured. He stood very close to the bed, hovering over Thelma, wearing a black bra with white lace trim, matching panties, his face very close to hers with his tongue extended, almost touching the tip of her nose.
“She would've shit a brick if I’d left that one on her pillow,” he said aloud, laughing to himself, then more raucously.