Molly and I would drive up and down the eastern seaboard on I-95 like two characters out of a Bruce Springsteen song, circa The River or maybe Nebraska. Sometimes we like to pretend she’s Faye Dunaway and I’m Warren Beatty in Bonnie and Clyde. We don’t rob banks though; we rob jewelry stores and the occasional gas station.
Molly had a sly smile. She’d be the first to tell you she had a great sense of humor, maybe a little sarcastic, but not in a mean way. Molly was as comfortable in jeans and t-shirt, as she was in a formal gown and furs. As much as she liked camping and hiking, she would be just as happy to cuddle on the sofa watching Netflix. I found her among a thousand other women available on a dating service online. The line that drew me in though was she was looking for a partner in crime.
As it happened, I was looking for a crime partner myself. Imagine my infinite delight to find a woman of refinement and criminal intent all rolled up in an hourglass figure and beautiful auburn hair and violet eyes. I messaged her on the dating app a few times, as one does in these situations. I started off cautiously and gently probed around the periphery, trying to figure out what kind of crimes were her specialty. Maybe she was a grifter, making small-time scores at the local Five and Dime. Or maybe she was looking to hire a gun to kill her cheating bum of a husband. Or maybe she was the local police or, even worse, the FBI. So it took me a few days of slow circling the subject before I realized she was a small-time shoplifter. Her potential partner would act as lookout, while she snatched some small, valuable items and threw them into a foil-lined purse. I had bigger plans.
We met, dated a few times and I actually helped her shoplift at the local Megamall. We needed seed money anyway for the things I wanted to do. We needed casual but fashionable clothes, expensive shoes, manicures, and some classy jewelry. We’d choose a little boutique jewelry store in some tired town in Vermont, case it for a few hours and go in just before closing. Molly would flirt and ask to see a dozen different items from several cases. I’d play the rich husband who gave her anything she wanted, but let me look at the men’s watches while my dear Molly enjoyed herself. I was the long-suffering, but ultimately indulgent, husband. She was good with her playful banter and seemingly innocent display of her décolletage. Sooner or later, the old proprietor would forget to close a case. Molly would want to see something elsewhere and I’d swoop in and snatch a few baubles.
Several hours later, we’d be laying on the bed in some roadside motel in Delaware. I’d light two cigarettes and pass one to her waiting lips. We’d sell the goods, buy ourselves a nice dinner out, and plan our next move. I loved Molly, my sweet partner in crime.
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