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The Meeting

I've never been good with women, especially beautiful women. And she is beautiful: 5'9'', 135 pounds, blond hair, pools of azure for eyes. I've been following her for weeks now. She goes to work at the same time every day and comes home at the same time. She walks to the park every Saturday morning, buys the same almond-flavored coffee from the same food cart, and sits on the same bench. Last week I pretended to be birdwatching to justify binoculars, but decided I needed to get closer to her.

She never noticed me.

She shooed off two potential suitors so far this morning before she sipped her coffee. I will approach her, but won't look into her eyes. I need to do this.

No one is around so I approach her bench carrying my newspaper and stack of books, but stumble, scattering my books at her feet. She smiles, sets her coffee down on the bench and says, "I'll help you with those." What a sweet girl.

She gets off the bench and bends to pick up my books while I stab a syringe through the lid of her coffee cup—the flavored coffee will mask the deadly dose of cyanide.

"Thanks," I said.

I continue on my way and walk out of the park. As I drive away, I see her convulsing on the sidewalk in front of the bench. Another job done and another 25 grand for me.

Story by:

NT Franklin

ntfranklin.author@gmail.com

22 December 2016