Sweet Alcohol

I had invited him out with malicious intention, but as he sipped his champagne, sweetly smiling at our waiter, I grew uneasy. My hand found its way to my pocket where inside lay a small gun. I rested my fingers against it, as if feeling the metal would give me the nerve to complete my task. It was a dine and dash of sorts, at least for me. The young man across from me however, would not prove to be so lucky.

A violinist played for us, his fingers nimbly moving across the strings as his other hand was caught in a steady up and down movement of the bow, sawing across the strings. A melody that should sound so sweet only came echoing back at me through the tiny restaurant, that was empty, save us, as a violent, deafening tune that pounded in my ears.

The boy looked at me from across the table, hat pulled down low over his eyes that despite the shadows, seem to stand out, twinkling happily in the soft candle light. The flickering candle between us reflected on his silk shirt, painting his skin had an eerie red glow. Red, like blood. If I wasn’t so nervous I might have smiled at the irony.

“I never thought you would ask me out like this. It’s such a pleasant surprise.”

His fingers groped across the table for my hand that was resting there, his fingers intertwining with mine, and I lost my composure. I pulled my other hand from my pocket, away from the trigger that seemed so easy to press just moments ago, away from the reminders of my dark intentions.

“Yea,” I agreed half-heartedly, my hands shaking as I reached for my champagne glass, my fingers nearly snapping the stem as they closed around it.

He was so happy for one night with me, completely unaware of what I had been paid to do.

I had receive the letter in my daily post the previous afternoon, the envelope white and crisp, the post mark absent, as if the letter had just been dropped in my mailbox by a passing person.

The details of the letter were very specific. I was to meet the boy at Balbina’s fine Italian dinning downtown at ten o’clock p.m. The restaurant would be empty. The restaurant owner knows about the hit. Twenty thousand dollars has already been deposited in my account. Their weapon of choice, pistol. I would know who the victim was when I saw him.

I was in no way prepared when I did finally see him. Knowing the victim when I saw him. It seemed like a sick joke. Blonde hair cropped just above his ears, blue eyes that sparkled, the same familiar smile. He was beautiful and innocent. He was the young man that I had been in love with for the last three years.

“I’ve been waiting for you to finally ask me out. I was so happy when I got the letter.” He was so excited and I didn’t even send the letter to him.

For three years I’ve been going to the café next door just for the slim hope of seeing his smiling face. For three years I’ve watched him, talked with him, loved him. And in those three years, I never once told anyone. I couldn’t even tell him. I feared his rejection, the lost of his friendship and his warmth. It’s not often in these days a man will agree to date another man, but here we sit, romance artificially injected into the air, violinist playing sweet songs just for us, and me so nervous I can hardly bare to look at him. Under different circumstances, I could be happy.

The restaurant owner jars me out of my thoughts as he places a hot plate in front of me, the steam from the plate making my hand that clasped the boy’s uncomfortably warm. I remove my hand from his and my other finds it’s way to my pocket, fingertips yet again on the familiar trigger. The young man falls quickly into conversation with the owner, and I let myself fade into the background, watching closely.

“This is a nice restaurant,” the boy says.

“Thanks, I’m trying to expand, but it’s hard in the city.” I see. I sit up a little straighter at this response. Expand? The young man across from me owns the café next door. It’s easy to expand when there’s no one there to own the property, right? Maybe that’s what this whole thing was about. The kid wouldn’t sell him the building. It makes sense. Of course the restaurant owner is in on it. He gains so much if the boy dies.

My finger tightens around the trigger.

If I kill the restaurant owner, I could save the boy. I’m sure he has to be the one who hired me, but then there is still the issue of his friends coming after us. And there’s still the rejection for the boy if he knows I was sent here to kill him. If he knows I’ve killed others.

I was already paid to kill the boy. I swore that I would never let feelings get in the way of a job. I’m losing my touch.

My eyes dart over to the boy, champagne glass rising to his smiling lips.

I can’t. I can’t kill him.

My hand clasps the gun completely, my limbs feeling like they’re moving in slow motion as I pull the gun out of my pocket and bring it to the top of the table, but before my finger can squeeze the trigger, I feel a burning pain in my chest and a sound that deafens me.

Falling to the ground, I hold my chest, blood pouring forth, between my fingers. The boy, the one that I had just been about to sacrifice everything for, the one I loved, the one I would die for, stands over me, champagne glass in one hand, smoking gun in the other, familiar smile upon his lips. The pain is unbearable.

“I really did love you,” he told me, blue eyes sparkling as he bent to take my gun away from me. “But business is business.” He took one last gulp of his champagne. “I don’t let my feeling get in the way of my job.”

Kneeling next to me, he kisses me, alcohol fresh on his lips, blood fresh on mine as my world fades to black.