Halfway

It was fall, when I first saw him.

He was beautiful. Eyes the color of caramelized peaches. Salty brown hair. He was drinking lemonade, even though the weather was turning sour.

My hands fumbled around the nickels I was counting, and they clattered onto the counter. The woman I was gathering change for, a little old lady holding a grumpy white dog, eyed me with distaste. I handed her the change as quickly as I could. It wasn’t accurate, I forgot a dime, but she didn’t count.

I locked eyes with him–– his honey on my earl grey. But then the ice-lady’s dog shit on the floor, and when I looked up after cleaning it up, he was gone.

There was something right about him. That little voice, the one that whispers things in the back of my head said, “him”.

And so it was him.

*

He started to come to the cafe after that. He paid in exact change, always got a lavender lemonade and a glazed donut. He’d begin munching it as soon as I handed it to him, and stare at me with his puppy-dog eyes.

The fourth time he came, he called me pretty. I blushed, played the game, fluttered my lashes and giggled like a school girl. The voice was more insistent, "Him. This boy. Right here. Him.".

His name was Simon, he told me. He called me Alice, because of my nametag, and I didn't correct him, even though that wasn't my name. He liked to skateboard, he told me. He liked Steven King, he liked the Killers. He didn't like brussel sprouts. He went to a community college in the area, biding his time until he had enough money to transfer. He was a normal boy.

He thought he knew me, collected kernels of knowledge every time we spoke. Is your hair naturally that white? (a nod) Do you like sherbet? (a nod) Are you in school near here? (a nod) Do you have a boyfriend? (a thin-lipped, brutal smile)

I never said yes. It isn't my fault he made assumptions.

The twelfth time he visited, he ordered a lemonade, a donut, and my number. Like this, "Can I get a lemonade, a donut, and your number?"

He was nervous, jittery. His palms left perspiration marks on the counter-top.

I blinked once, twice, just to make him sweat.

Then, "okay".

His smile was hot sun, like something shiny-new, like summertime in a breath. His eyes glowed with excitement. "Okay!"

I wrote my phone number down on a napkin for him. He texted me three times that night.

I responded. Witty, light, the right flavor of interested.

*

I'll admit to being nervous for our date. He was taking me to dinner, then a walk around the park. I wore a nice blouse, did my hair up, packed my purse like I'd practiced.

I let him order for me. He didn't know what to get me–– he ordered lobster at first, then spied the price and changed it to pasta.

He looked nice in his checkered shirt. His eyes sparkled when he saw me. He was new at this, at this dance. It was endearing. Lovely, even. I liked how green he was at everything.

He talked through dinner, told me about his childhood in Chicago, his dreams of art school. He asked me questions I dodged. I don't talk about myself.

He paid the bill in exact change. I saw his coin purse. It was embroidered, like an old woman's.

After dinner, we walked around the park and he took my hand. I had long since slipped on gloves, the night had a bite to it. Underfoot, leaves the color of wet earth crunched, dispelling the scent of mulch. On the crook of my arm, my purse hung, the contents clunking with displeasure at every step.

We reached an isolated grove of trees. They looked as if the sunset was growing from finger-bones. The trees cast nightmare shadows on the ground. Cicadas made up a choral in the background.

Simon turned to me, "May I kiss you?"

And I nodded.

So he kissed me, his hands on my waist, his eyes pressed shut in concentration. It was a nice kiss. Sweet.

I reached into my purse, wrapped my eager fingers around the hilt of a gun. Flicked off the safety, pressed the muzzle into his soft underbelly. He pulled back a little then, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. "What are you––"

I shot him in the stomach.

The silencer I'd purchased worked, no gunshot rang out. Only the soft sound of a bullet sinking through skin, tissue, organs, and whistling out the other side.

Simon stumbled back, hands pressed against the hole in his stomach. Blood burbled out of his mouth, slid down his chin and neck in rivulets. In the moonlight, it looked almost black.

I'd never killed someone before. I'd thought about it, but I had never gathered the nerve. Now, all the waiting, all that build-up, all the violence I'd had to release on myself was worth it. I watched Simon crumple to the ground, watch him turn from a person to a thing.

I watched him there, lying on the ground for as moment. Prodded him with the toe of my boot. He didn't move. Blood was pooling around his motionless figure. He was dead.

I peeled off my wool gloves, revealing the latex ones that were hiding underneath. I sealed the wool ones into a plastic baggie and slid that into my purse. With the latex gloves, I fished out the largest pieces of shell casings from his body and the surrounding floor and placed them into my purse as well. The latex gloves were taken off too, placed inside-out in a side pocket. I'd grind the gloves, both pairs, in my garbage disposal when I got home. The shell casings would go into a baggie that once held Scrabble tiles, and that would go under a floorboard in the left-hand corner of my closet.

I sent one last look toward the boy I killed.

A smile tugged across my lips. It felt real, more genuine than anything else had in a long time.

*

I went back to work the next day. The voice that whispered was quiet. My bones felt calm. My co-worker asked me where "that cute boy, the one with those eyes" was. Something brutal inside me fizzed, alight with ectasy. I shrugged and finished swirling whipped cream on the hot chocolate I was making.

The door chimed as it opened, admitting a girl with fire-engine hair in a messy braid.

"Her next."

That was the beginning.