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Now that the time has come, I’ll savor it, that sweet, sweet taste of revenge. Licking my lips, my eyes trained on the building with the red door cut into a dimly lit alcove, a striped awning flapping with the stiff breeze, I wait. Then, I’m forced to move quickly, stepping deeper into the shadows as a man with a briefcase, head ducked against the wind, passes nearby. He’s in a hurry to get out of the storm and doesn’t so much as throw a glance in my direction.
I hear a siren in the distance and freeze, but the shrieks fade as the emergency vehicle speeds even further away, unimpeded by much traffic on this stormy night.
Anxiously I stare at the red door.
“Come on, come on,” I whisper.
But she doesn’t appear.
Nervous now, I check my watch again.
She’s late.
Five minuteslate.
Damn!
Come on. Come on.
Heartbeat pounding in my ears, I begin to sweat.
I’m breathing too fast.
Calm down!
Be patient.
But my nerves are strung tight, the muscles in my neck and shoulders bunched so tight they ache, my hand grasping the hilt of the knife strapped to my waist.
I know she’s inside.
I passed her car, a little Subaru parked where she usually found a space when she visited the gym.
Noise!
Movement!
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy a couple dashing wildly through the storm. I turn quickly away to face the park just in case they glance in my direction and somehow see through my disguise. Sharing a shivering umbrella, they rush past, their coats billowing, the woman’s laughter barely audible through the storm. Splashing by, they don’t notice me.
Barely holding on to my sanity, I check my watch. Again.
Seven minutes.
Seven minutes late!
My pulse skyrockets. All my plans shrivel. Why would anything change tonight? She’s always been prompt. I’ve timed her. On several different occasions. Like clockwork, she’s always walked out the door within a minute or two of the hour.
I’m suddenly frantic. Unsure. Could she have left by another doorway? Because of the downpour? Did someone call her?Warnher? But no. No one knows what I’m planning.Noone.
For a different view of the building, I cross the alley, but staring through the downpour, I see nothing out of the ordinary as I study the building with its recessed red door. Squinting, I look upward to the second floor where the yoga class is held. The lights are still on.
And then the red door opens.
She steps out and into the storm.
My pulse ticks up. My blood pounds in my ears and drowns out the sounds of the city, the rush of tires on nearby streets, the gurgle of water in downspouts, the incessant pounding of the rain. All I hear is my own thudding heart.
Eyeing the black heavens from beneath the flapping awning, she clicks up her umbrella and begins jogging, hurrying across Royal Street, her boots splashing through puddles, the umbrella’s canopy shuddering with the wind.
