One
All he wanted was a surroget lover who wouldn't disappear. Something to stop the pain, be it work, play or sin.
The wind’s chilling, and the man wraps his long wool jacket tighter around himself.
It was late and combat boots fall heavy on littered sidewalks. “Perhaps” he mutters to himself “It’s better this way”. He doesn't belief his own counsel.
Sirens in the distance make music with handgun reports.
3 o'clock.
Coffee.
10 minutes pass and he is accepting a cup of joe from a waitress with sunken eyes. As the darkness depletes leaving only pale white mug his eyes open to a harsh reality. She’s gone, and with her departure marks the death of the carefree, simple days. Summers over, the breeze outside proves it just as well as the now cold memories.
More Coffee.
The same waitress refills his mug, track marks glowing throu paper thin cotton.
Why?
Before the punk hit the ground it was over.
Leather jackets don't stop bullets.
Two wrongs don't make a right.
If either one were true, she'd still be alive. He chuckles at the unfunnyness of it all. Alive.
A voice cuts the bloody memory short.
“Mr. Jackson?”
“Maybe”
A man in a suit sits down, pin stripes, silver glasses, and slick black hair.
“What would you say if I told you what you wanted to hear?”
“Depends” he has a sip of coffee “What do I want to hear?”
The suit pauses. “We can help you get her back.”