I went to my little suitcase and retrieved the knife. I just wish I’d remembered to take off the dress before I cut his throat. The gods were smiling upon me though, because the corner 7-Eleven had plenty of those precious little dye packets, the kind you use for multicolored rubber banded t-shirts.

Back in the dingy hotel room, I dumped three packets of Deepest Rosso in a bathtub full of hot water. Placed my perfect dress in the vermilion water and left it for an hour. Had a nice glass of whiskey I poured from his silver flask.

It was time. A few snips with some scissors, both the dress and my hair, five minutes with the hairdryer and I was an elegant woman in a red dress, ready for a night on the town.

He was surprisingly heavy for a slight man. Getting him in the tub was a bitch. I sawed at his wrists a few times, made it look like he tried there first. I only spilled a few drops.

I kissed his forehead before I left. Till Death Do Us Part just got a whole lot shorter.

THE STORM

Mouth Full of Bullets 2006

The sky was transparent gray, the rain moving up the valley. Lightning danced, long silver white forks hitting the ground, thunderbolts thrown from Zeus’ hand. The lights flickered as I looked out the window, watching the wet blanket of virga slip closer and closer. The mountains hovered, old men with knowledge to share. The outcropping of rock known to the locals as Indian Head glowered at me. Hummingbirds raced the wind, trying to gather one last sip of sugar water before the storm drove them to their invisible nests.

He was coming for me.

You may wonder how I knew. It was the palpable sense of heaviness that hung over my house. The storm would blow in, bringing his acrid breath to the nape of my neck. He would stand over me. I would be powerless. If it got that far, if he got the upper hand, I was done for.

There was a little matter of paperwork.

The contract was sought three months ago. My previous employers weren’t happy with my performance on a singularly gigantic job. I had killed the target, in the exact manner they requested. It was my affair with the man that upset them. I wasn’t sure why they cared. He was dead, the contract fulfilled. One little roll in the hay and they got their panties in a wad. Hired someone to take me out. I was a bit upset by their overreaction.

There were ramifications to every action I took these days. I wish I could go back to the early days, where mistakes were overlooked because I was who I was. No longer. More was expected of me.

I knew who they had hired, of course I did. It was my business to know these things. He was the best, which is difficult for me to say. It’s hard to admit that you may not be the very best at what you do. But I’m a realist, and if that’s the truth, I have no reason to hide it from you. It’s not so much that he’s better than I, more a matter of his experience. He is the legend. He is the west wind. He is the assassin no one knows, no one has ever seen.

And he is coming for me.

I’d reinforced the doors and windows, put a stock of weapons at hand in each room, places I would know where to look, but he wouldn’t. I wasn’t planning on going down without a fight.

Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky. He doesn’t have the element of surprise. My agent quite humanely called ahead, let me know when the paper was produced. He likes me, would rather me be alive and making him commissions than cold and dead in the grave.

The lights dimmed, then extinguished. Light flashed in secondary increments, allowing me to see the huddled figure at the base of my ponderosa stand.

He has come for me.

I palmed two weapons and spun away from the window. He would come in through the guest room, two floors below. I’d left the window cracked to make his break-in easier. Four paces to my left was a small alcove, to the right the cavernous space of my office. The top room of the house; cool in the summer, warm in the winter. I’d hate to give the room up. I bought this house specifically because I knew I’d enjoy spending time in the bucolic space, the windows overlooking both the valley and the mountains. I stepped into the shadows of the alcove, knowing the darkness hid me from sight.

I heard the footsteps on the stairs. Silently climbing. The third stair from the top creaked a single screech when you tried to step to the side. He took to the middle of the riser. He’d been informed.

Two more steps and he’d been in my sights. My hand didn’t shake. The gun was steady, pointed at the man’s heart. I’d only have one chance to make this shot.

“Honey?”

I fumbled with the weapons. My husband. I was safe, fine.

“Robert? Jesus, I almost shot you. What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were in Seattle.” I holstered one weapon in the small of my back, set the other on the table, covered it with a magazine. I’d distract him and slip it away in a bit—now there were two of us to keep safe. How was I going to pull that off? We couldn’t leave; the wind would chase us down. This was the spot for the last stand.

I went to Robert, kissed his neck. He buried his nose in my hair, held me tight. I finally got claustrophobic and pulled back to look out the window again.

Robert understood. I wasn’t the most demonstrative woman. Minimal touching. He’d accepted that about me early on.

“Honey, I called three times. You didn’t get my message? Are there any candles? The bloody lights have blown, the storm is here.”

I laughed, surprised when my voice came out shaky and rough. Adrenaline. That and the fact that I’d nearly murdered my very own husband.

“They’re in my top desk drawer. I didn’t get your call, the phones must be out too.” Of course they were, I’d cut the line forty-five minutes ago, after my agent had rung me, breathless and sad. “So why are you home early? Everything alright with the McGinnis account?”

There was the flick of a match. The room glowed in an eerie light. Robert, lit by the blunt stub of wax, was holding my 9 mm Glock. It was pointed at my chest. How is this possible?

He has come for me.

He is the man I love, the man I thought I knew.

“I love you,” he said, and fired.

I hardly flinched when the bullet entered my chest, pierced my heart. I felt nothing.

DREAM WEAVER

Flashing in the Gutters 2006

I squirmed in the too hard chair. I really needed a bathroom, but the judge was intoning something, and the jury was filing back in. My lawyer reached over and squeezed my hand. It just made me think of my bladder, and I wished I’d wake up already so I could drag myself through the dark to the toilet.

But this was one of those dreams that goes on and on and on, with no end in sight. I crossed my legs instead, admired my black patent Louboutin pump. The red sole winked at me. I smiled back—they had been a steal at Barney’s last season.

Judge Blowhard was talking again. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

A mousy middle-aged frump with a gray bun stood, holding out a piece of paper, which Barney Fife walked over to the judge. He started up again, his deep voice gravelly and intense. My lawyer pinched my forearm. I stood tall.