Balle walked up to me at an airport in early 1990. She was wearing a burgundy mid-length leather coat, a black turtleneck, and black wide-legged slacks. She was striking to look at, but what impressed me was her scent; she wore Chanelle, and I recognized the flowery notes immediately. I was at the end of a long flight with changes and delays and tired of the stale air.

​

She asked me if I had change for a hundred-dollar bill; she wanted to buy a coffee, and the vendor wouldn't take the large bill. She put the hundred on the table, pushed it towards me, and stood waiting for my answer. I told her all I had was a few twenties; I used my credit card when I traveled. Looking through my bag, I found a stray five-dollar bill and offered it to her. I was too tired to care if she was scamming me, and by the looks of her, she didn't need to scam anyone out of anything. 

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She thanked me with a smile, slid the bills off the table, and walked over to the food vendor. I thought nothing more of it until my next layover. When I got off my plane, there she was again. The pleasant smile on her face was adorned with a shade of lipstick that matched her leather jacket perfectly. She walked up to me and handed me a five-dollar bill.

"Thanks for the loan; I was able to get some change. Hey, I notice you can see me. Most can't. Would you have a moment to talk?"

It was quiet in the terminal; my flight had been delayed and rerouted. I was fortunate to be moving in the right direction and too exhausted from a long cross-continental flight to be certain of anything. But I woke right up and took a good look at the woman. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

She explained that she knew what I was and wanted to talk so she could keep traveling — on.

"Oh, of course," I said. Quite sure now that the stylish-looking woman was insane and possibly stalking me.

We sat at a small table in an almost empty bar, and she ordered me a drink. Balle told me all about her life, her man, her body count, her death, and everything she regretted doing and not doing.

 

​It felt like we talked for hours, but in reality it was no more than thirty minutes.

 

This is her story.  ​If ever a story needed a warning, it is this one. It's not for the faint of heart.