“I simply adore your work, Caleb. It’s so…..”

Rupert wears a corduroy suit and cravat, takes a sip of chamomile tea while he tries different adjectives for size. “…..sanguine.”

“Sanguine?” 

“Yes, sanguine. N’est pas? What do others think?” 

The retirees and book-clubbers murmur their approval. They could not agree more. 

I sometimes turn the gun around, look straight down the barrel, cross my eyes to see a road disappearing over the horizon line, the beginning of a new journey. 

Fucking retard. 

I used to say such things out loud, but my doctor told me not to, so now I just mouth the words instead. However, the girl with green hair notices and gives the tiniest smirk, the corners of her mouth changing from commas to apostrophes. 

One perfect bullet. It will be beautiful in its own way. Unlike all this ugliness. Perhaps tonight. Yes. Definitely tonight. 

“Caleb, wait!” The girl with green hair calls after me as I head towards the subway station. She runs the way people who are not athletic run: flat-footed and all elbows. The strap of her bag has fallen from her shoulder, and she holds her laptop against her midriff, like she has just stolen a pig from market. Above, the sky is mottled with angry cloud, the sidewalk sprouting umbrellas as people rush around her like a swollen river. 

“You know, your writing is really good.”  She rubs a hand awkwardly up and down her tattoo sleave. I notice the ridge lines where she has been cutting herself. I like how she doesn’t try to hide them. 

“Thanks. Your piece was…..” I want to try to find a way to be nice, but I hate historical romance. 

“Oh, I make that shit up.” She jerks her head back towards Rupert’s apartment. “For them. Most of it I just steal.” 

She grins at the thought of outsmarting everyone. 

“So, what do you really write?”  

“Dystopian fiction mostly. My anti-heroine is called Seven, because that’s how old she was when she first got raped.”

She knows the darkness, I can tell that much. 

“Where did that idea come from?” I ask her. 

She looks down and places her toe on the intersection of two sidewalk slabs with what seems like incredible precision, gives a little shrug. 

“Where do any of us get our inspiration from?” She pauses, considers her own question. “From my father, I suppose.” 

The rain is coming down hard now. It rolls off her fringe and down her face, but she does not much seem to care. 

“When my Dad left, I became Mom’s full time project,” I tell her, for reasons I cannot explain. “I suppose it took her mind off thinking about him fucking his intern in cheap motel rooms that you pay for by the hour.” 

Maybe I shouldn’t do it tonight after all. 

“So, see you next week?” She moves from foot to foot, no doubt remembers a similar choice. 

Eventually, I nod. 

“Good,” she smiles.