“I see the assassins have failed.”
This will never happen to me. I am too uninteresting and unimportant. I work a boring job. I read in my spare time or write what I think are funny stories. I go out with my friends and always end up the designated driver. My friends call me the ‘mother’ of the group. I used to think it of as an honor. Now I realize that it’s just because I’m safe. I don’t know. I don’t get much feedback on how to be a cooler person. The coolest part of my life? My other family members. Everyone else.
There will never be a moment when I know or hold something so precious that I am on someone else’s hit list. It’s utterly impossible.
And yet, I still dream that one day:
I walk into my favorite coffee shop (not like a Starbucks, god no). More like one of those retro or old style coffee shops where you can get your coffee in one of those cool mugs. It’s got a serene atmosphere. There are couples and young adults littered around the booths. I approach the counter and smile because I recognize the barista.
She smiles back at me as we share a moment. She hands me my coffee mug and points to the booth by the window. She’s been waiting for me to come in. She never speaks to me but I can tell that we have a thing going on. She always saves me the same seat.
I see that the daily news is on the table and the usual flower vase has been moved from the window. I appreciate the gesture but I don’t know why she does it.
I approach the booth, careful to not spill my latte. It has one of those strange illustrations on the top but I’m not sure what it says. I don’t really care.
A man in all black slides past me. We brush shoulders but all I can think about is not spilling my latte. I paid fucking five bucks for this. He leans in for the moment we’re in contact.
“I see the assassins have failed.”
I freeze. If that was directed to me, they must have been the worst assassins ever. I do the same routine thing every day or sometimes I change it up and sit downstairs watching TV instead of my room. Good lord, how long had they been trying to get me?
And I should be terrified. I should have dropped the mug and run out the café without so much as looking back. I should scream or call for help.
But I don’t. I continue to my seat and place the mug down, glad to have accomplished my mission. The mug is safe and the design on top is still intact. I pull out my phone to take a picture. Because that’s what I do every day.
My mind is still reeling from the thought that I have successfully evaded assassins. I’m a little cool. Although no one will ever know because no one will ever believe me. I change some of the options, putting a cool filter and saving it to my profile.
Do I attach it with a simple #today?
I reach for the mug and glance out the window. The streets are a bit dreary and it looks like it’s going to rain. I feel like I’m in one of those movies where I’ve outrun everything and it’s near the end but I have nowhere to go. I’ve nothing else to do than just keep on living. I could kill myself and make everyone else lose hope for not completing the job.
But I’d get no satisfaction out of that.
Especially since I have no idea why I’m being targeted.
I take a deep breath but it turns out more like an exasperated sigh. I slurp up the foam off the top. It’s the best part of the latte. Especially since I don’t like coffee anyway. I just like the taste of milk and sugar. And this? This latte doesn’t have nearly enough sugar.
I slide out of my booth and head for the counter. The barista throws me a small smile again but this time it’s tight. I’m amused and curious but I don’t ask. She won’t talk to me anyway. I grab three packets of sugar and a stirring rod. I rethink my decision and grab a fourth. I don’t feel judged, just surprised that I never put on weight.
The sound of shattering glass hits my ears.
I turn to see my cup in pieces, coffee strewn everywhere. There’s a waterfall of milk pouring off the table where I would have been sitting. I should be angry, terrified, running. But all I can think of is defeat.
I turn back and the barista isn’t smiling anymore. She seems to be in shock as many of the customers are headed for the front door. I’m not sure why people do that. The bullet comes from outside, yet everyone runs outside. It seems like a stupid idea in retrospect.
But nobody thinks when fear is involved.
Now I’m angry.
I approach the barista, the sugar packets still in my hand. I crunch them and it just makes me angry. I take a deep breath to calm down and then stare her straight in the eye.
“Free refills?”