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Why would you do that?
Sometimes, a man has to do the right thing.
So you’re a man, then?
“What are you smiling at?” Mom says.
“I’m not smiling.”
She narrows her eyes, staring up at me. “I haven’t seen you smile in far too long.”
“Well, I wasn’t smiling.”
There’s no reason for me to be gripping the back of the chair so hard as I stand here. There’s no reason for this strange feeling to swell up inside of me, these nonsense signals. I don’t even know who this person is.
Is that a surprise? he texts.
I was thinking you might be a woman.
Then you’ve watched too many movies, young lady.
“You’re smiling again,” Mom says.
I turn away, shaking my head, trying to get control of my lips. Mom would freak out if she knew how odd I felt right now. I can’t make any sense of it. This man is a hitman, a killer.
Am I that starved for social interaction? Work, home, work, home. Nothing in between. Working alone, headphones in, cleaning giant office buildings before riding the subway back to this little corner of paradise.
That sounds a little sexist.
Ha, maybe it’s my age.
How old are you? I text.
Forty-two. More than twice your age. You’re a kid compared to me.
I move my thumbs fast, having no idea why I want to make this point so badly.
I’m not a kid. I’m nineteen. That’s what they call a legal adult. Anyway, everybody has different levels of maturity, right?
After I send the message, I stare at it, stunned at myself, the conversational tone, and the direction of the discussion. It’s almost like we’re… Obviously, we’re not, but it’s… We can’t be flirting, can we?
I said, “Compared to me,” he replies. Double your age, add six, and you’ve got mine. That’s a lot of years.
My heart is beating in a strange way. Mom is lying on the couch as if she gave up trying to share the conversation. I slink onto the chair, trying to tame this weird feeling. I need to see him. Then the want will go away. He won’t be a phantom, faceless man from my dreams.
Are you really just doing this out of the goodness of your heart?
For some reason, I imagine him smirking, this stranger. This could all still be a prank. I wouldn’t phrase it like that. I’m doing it because it’s the right thing.
How do I know this isn’t a trick?
You don’t, but it isn’t.
I bite my lip, a habit that once almost saw my lip gnawed off in high school. It took years of training to stop myself from doing that, constantly monitoring myself. Sometimes, it happens, like the stress is trying to find an outlet.
Maybe you should send me a photo, I type.
What would that prove?
That you’re… I stop, then delete what I’ve written. He’s right. I’m just curious. I’d just be more comfortable if I knew this was legit.
Wait a minute.
It’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to be. I worked today, my body sore, and now it’s Saturday night with free music pumping from all directions: the street, the apartments, the sky. It feels like God is shouting down at us.
A second later, a photo appears. This is so you can recognize me if I need to approach you in public. The background is so you know you’re in safe hands.
“Huh?” Mom rolls over and peels her eyes open.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a noise. A squeak.”
“I didn’t squeak.”
Mom smiles wickedly, a hint of the woman who returns when she gets sober, but she’s never around for long. Even so, I feel myself trying to cling to this version. “You did so.”
“I’ll be in my room.”
I walk on shaky legs, shut the door, drop onto the bed, and stare in awe at the photo. He must’ve set his phone on a surface because it’s a little crooked but doesn’t conceal any details.
He stands in the middle of the room, wearing a gray shirt and shorts. His arms are massive, bulging, his shoulders like boulders. His neck muscles are even big. I sense he’s tall, towering over the shelving units behind him. His hair is silver and mature, his eyes a stark, glinting, perceptive blue.
My heart keeps thudding. That tingle was supposed to go away when I saw him, but it’s back, my body aching.
Behind him, on the shelves, are rows and rows of guns of all types: rifles, pistols, maybe grenades, and other stuff. I’m not sure. His face is serious, but there’s a slight twitch in the corner of his lip.
Do you always send incriminating photos to new clients? I send, telling myself I haven’t fallen hard for this hitman. My sex isn’t aching. My thighs aren’t tingling. My soul isn’t singing out for his touch.
No, Katy. This is the first time.
Why do it, then?
Three dots appear, disappear, and appear again. I’ve got to touch my mouth to stop biting my lip. As he types the message, I quickly do a reverse-image search online. Maybe he typed mature, experienced badass into Google or something, but no, there’s nothing. This is his image, at least. Does that mean it’s him?
