how it should be

You're standing on the other side of the street, smoking your nth cigarette. You look up at the balcony of the big white house when you sense the french doors open. Someone walks out and the clothes lines criss-crossing the balcony move. You see a pair of hands picking out the clothespins and you hear the sound they make as they hit what you suspect is a plastic pail, little thuds. A clothes pin is gathered then thrown on the pail. You see one hand now, holding a rag and running it through the length of the clotheslines, one at a time. Your heart flutters as you see the top of the person's head, black hair clipped into a tiny pony tail. You only see the back of the head, the clip is black, plastic. You hear a voice, you relax, it's not HER.

The gate below opens and you hear chatter of female voices. Your heart flutters some more, you inhale the last of the cigarette stick you hold in your hand. You adjust your wrap-around sunglasses and pretend you're not looking, that you're looking to your left, at the oncoming traffic, but your eyes are actually looking at the gate.

Then you see HER. Deep red blouse, loose enough that it sways in the gentle morning breeze. Long skinny black skirt. Bare white legs. Silver coloured flat shoes. She comes out of the gate, one hand clutching her shoulder purse, the other holding a large bag with a famous logo. Large sunglasses that reflects everything around her. You cannot see her eyes. For a while you thought she was looking or staring at you. She stops right outside. You see her lips stretch into a shy smile.

You pretend to look away and ask yourself, can she see me? Is she smiling at me? Then you look again. She is still standing there, on the other side of the street, just outside the property's gate. Your heart flutters once again. You know she's looking at you.

She crosses the street, towards you. A taxi passes by, then another. She stops in the middle of the road when she thinks a vehicle is not about to let her through. She finishes crossing the street and walks towards you. You slowly put your hand inside your jacket, pull your gun and before she could say a word, you pull the trigger. Shoot her. Right through the heart. You see her slowly fall, down on her knees, hand clutching her chest, the purse still on her shoulder, the large bag on the pavement.

You walk away, dial a number on your cellphone. You hear it ringing. A voice answers. "She's out of the way." Then you hit the off button. A passing bus slows down and you get in. You relax.