The room was clambering with conversations, broken sentences and ardent exclamations littering the noisy air. The clattering of footsteps and distant rumbles of trains against tracks were comforting, reminding me that I wasn’t alone. My eyes caught those of a familiar face, their green irises guiding me through the heavy crowd. As I approached the bench on which his huddled figure was sat, he showed no sign of recognition, continuing to stare at his dimly lit phone screen.

“Hello,” I greeted with a short mumble, my words stopping before they carried over to any of our unsuspecting surroundings.

“Do you have the package?” the man asked clearly, his eyes still firmly trained on the unintelligible words flickering across his phone. The swath of black fabric, in the form of an ill-fitting coat surrounding him, remained unmoving, hiding the sharp outlines of his torso and shoulders. I waited for any other form of acknowledgement, hesitant of delivering the parcel to a man I had just met, given its classified nature. My eyes caught onto the royal blue scarf tucked around his neck, an indication given to me by my employer for the designated characterization of the contact.

I sighed in response to his indifference, reaching into the pocket of my trench coat, grasping for the smooth manilla envelope. I pulled it out in a swift motion, sliding it across the cold cement bench we were seated upon.

“How did it go?” I prompted, curious about the details of his mission. I had heard about his actions on the news, but they never quite explained his handiwork with the eloquence I desired.

“It was simple,” he shrugged, pocketing the envelope. His eyes still hadn’t met mine, in an effort to make our discussion look like a casual one, between two strangers who happened to be at the same train station. “There wasn’t much struggle. I always get stabbed, though.”

“Drawbacks of working with knives, I guess,” I suggested, my tone unnaturally blasé. He gave me a short chuckle, standing up from where he was seated. His briefcase rested against the armrest of the bench, purposefully abandoned. With a curt nod, he disappeared into the crowd I had just escaped, his black coat of just another jaded commuter rushing through the busied room.


a city sunset from the serenity of a balcony

Sunsets have fascinated me from a young age, their twilight the most beautiful time of the day. The blend of colors they paint across the sky will forever remain one of my favorite sights.

a • lone • ly

a response to the daily post’s writing prompt

Everything would be so different if she had just said no. If she had just pulled up her big-girl pants and told him, firmly and unsympathetically: “no.” But she couldn’t. His chocolate brown eyes didn’t give her a fighting chance, pleading with her, eliciting pity, guilt, and affection from her. His big brown eyes, so innocently persuasive, were nothing like his heart; so manipulatively cold. She should have just said no.

She watched the passing people with apprehension, her fingers tugging deftly at the hem of her dress, pulling, pushing, itching to escape. Her eyes wandered among the crowd, their deep ebony resonating lost betrayal. She knew this was a mistake from the moment her lips had formed around the word “yes”, utterly out of her control, detached from her brain and strung along by her pathetic heart. But she waited, knowing her word was the only valuable thing she had these days, and that leaving would mean losing it.

She waited by the ice cream parlor, its pastel colors enveloping her. She waited by the children huddled around the table, their faces coated in layers of chocolate mess. She waited by the inviting music from inside the buildings that mocked her as she stood alone, outside. She waited, and waited, until she knew it was time to leave.

The city had turned off now, the twinkling lights turned to a half-hearted flickering; the stumbling strangers varied from returning home intoxicated to paled neophytes walking stiffly and cautious of everything. She clung to the familiarity of the latter, her purse clutched in her hand, her knuckles turning white and red: the broken shards of a candy cane.

She reached her home with a sigh, knowing that tonight went exactly as expected – that she had known that tonight wouldn’t have gone any other way. He was a liar. She was a broken record; a compass’s needle pointing shakily to morality, drowning in the knowledge that everyone would always be taking advantage of her.