"A bit old for trick-or-treating, eh?"

"Depends on the treat," she shrugs.

I don’t have anything, no one comes here.

That spooky house children run past?
Mine.

That weirdo who lives there, probably a retired serial killer?
Me.

I’m not, though.

"I have pumpkin pie," I lie.

A bet lost? A drunken dare?

She follows me, sits down, her skirt slides up. She crosses her legs, too late. White panties, something dark and inviting visible through. Seducing, provoking. Acknowledging.

I bring the plate, empty under the lid, but she’ll never know. And the knife.

Like I said, I’m not.

Retired.