Snow Angel
My fingers stink of the half pack of cigarettes I’ve smoked as I wait. Sniffing them holds off the urge to light another…for a while. I’m tired of waiting, but theres no point in leaving yet. Haven’t gotten what I wanted yet. Maybe I should quit smoking I think, the thought seems to rear its fresh lunged face only when I’m reaching for another. Quick lighter work banishes that far away. It’s easy, so long as you don’t dwell. I try not to dwell.
Finally, things happen. I watch my man leave through the side entrance of his apartment building, turning sideways to squeeze along the piled garbage. Winter hit hard last week, and the sanitation department are still playing catch up. Its cold, and everything stinks. My man lumbers up the block, heading north toward 6th. I leave the car and take off on foot. With a weather-justified hat and face mask, I’m not afraid of being recognized. I trail him another two blocks west on 6th, and duck off under a storefront a block away while he enters a rundown bodega with the only shoveled walk-way on the block. I fill my pockets with my hands, and curse myself for leaving the smokes in the car. Lady luck makes it a short wait.
He walks out of the market carrying a bag in each hand. Looks like soda and snacks; it’s always less rewarding when they don’t take care of themselves. I cut across the street and circle back around the block, moving two blocks south at a decent pace, catching him again after I turn around back north, just in time to see him disappear behind the garbage mountain again. I make the quick decision to just get it over with, hurrying a bit in the snow to cut down the distance between us. When I make it to the entrance way of the building’s alley, a quick scan shows he’s still fidgeting with the door. He seems to be having trouble selecting and turning the proper key against the bite of wind and weight of his bags. Too stubborn to take a moment to set them down, he struggles. About two seconds after he notices there’s someone else walking behind him, I collapse his skull with open palm shove to the back of his neck, slamming him into the door. After he drops, I dot my “i” and slice his throat. Willpower being low, I snatch one of his soda bottles as I turn back toward the street. Five minutes later I’m “doing the dew” and contemplating Chinese or Thai for dinner while the car warms up. Maybe Mexican.
- Peter J. McCann
January, 2012.
78 Notes