The Girl with Green Eyes

Some of my friends say I’m single because I’m afraid of commitments. They think I never let relationships grow; I kill them before they blossom. Others tell me I’m too picky. They claim I’m looking for perfection among mortals. The truth is I’m single because I can’t find anyone alive who meets my simple requirements.

And what are those requirements? I only have two. The first is that she must have green eyes. I love girls with green eyes: tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones, smart ones, dumb ones—all shapes, sizes, and personalities. Whoever said, “Love is blind” never met me. My decision making process is highly influenced by what I see. I have a penchant for green.

Recently a green-eyed damsel with hair like a pile of Kansas wheat sashayed into my life. Her name was Emma. She wore a floral perfume that smelled like something from a bumblebee’s fantasy.

Emma worked in the library. One look at her could help a man interpret the Song of Solomon. We used to talk for hours at a time. Or rather, I should say, I used to listen for hours at a time. But that didn’t bother me. She had a British accent. Her words floated around the room like exotic butterflies. She made me want to sing my favorite country song: “Green Eyes Crying in the Rain.”

I remember the day our relationship got out of neutral. I asked her what books she had been reading. This is my standard interview question. It reveals a person’s interests and hints at the amount of activity in their skull.

She said, “I’ve been reading works from the Masters of the Macabre: Stephen King, H.P. Lovecraft, and Edgar Allan Poe. As you can see, I enjoy horror stories.”

Now any woman who places the words “enjoy” and “horror” in the same sentence is my kind of woman. I thought this could be a match made in heaven. Or maybe in hell. Only time, bankruptcy, and the divorce courts would tell.

One night as she was locking up the library, Emma invited me to take a stroll with her in a dark and verdant park. She gave me her sultry, smoldering, green gaze—and I surrendered.

The moon was full. The mosquitoes were out. And we were alone. This combination put my two-track mind on the wrong track.

As we meandered through the park admiring each other, I began to feel like a famished tiger at a petting zoo. The atmosphere had awakened my instincts. And dinner was calling my name.

She put her arms around my neck. I put my hands around her neck. Emma had a long and statuesque neck that would make a swan jealous. Then I grinned. Her eyes burst open like emerald umbrellas. It was the first time she had seen me flash my pearly whites. Before that magical moment, I had only given her a polite smattering of frozen-fish smiles. Now I was grinning; and she was fainting. Sometimes I have that effect on women.

Emma was everything I ever wanted in a woman. She had a sweet personality complemented by the greenest eyes I had ever seen. But she also had something else. Something I find irresistible. It’s my second requirement: type O blood. What more could a vampire want?

After dinner that night, I wondered why I’m still single. It’s obviously not my fault. I just can’t seem to find anyone alive who meets my simple requirements.

Kevin Crispo lives in a palatial abode near St. Louis. He reads horror stories for fun and studies eschatology for torture.