GUN IN MY HAND

RENDEZVOUS AT THE SPARKLING MOSQUITO

It's only eleven thirty, he reminded himself. They had agreed to meet there in thirty minutes last time they spoke, and yet, he still felt something in the pit of his stomach, something that told him not to trust whatever she had in mind.

Why would she ever do something bad? Stupid question. He knew her all too well.

Stomp, stomp, stomp...

He silenced his steps (at least he tried to) and looked over his shoulder for the fifth time already. Two of those five times he'd caught a shadow moving behind him, but the quietness coating the street made him consider the possibility that perhaps he was just imagining things.

Not only that, but if it was a burglar tailing him, he would enjoy teaching the son of a bitch a lesson. He knew better than all of those morons running up and down the streets these days, thinking they could call themselves thieves for such amateur acts as stealing jewelry and some old lady's purse—they were in to get more sweet honey candies than actual valuable goods.

It angered him how the word thief was now associated with those fools in zebra printed costumes, and it made it worse knowing they pointed him as one of them. Her, too. Perhaps both of them shouldn't have brushed off the fact that staying more than a month in the same place just for a dumb break from their routine was more than risky.

Only seven more blocks, a voice whispered like a reminder in the back of his head, but a collision coming from the adjacent alley startled him. Looking over his shoulder again, he noticed a shadow—this time a tiny one—moving from the fire escape's dark corner into the lighted section.

A cat. A stupid, squalid, scar-filled cat with lamp-like eyes that glowed a golden color under the dim light was now staring back at him. One of its paws swayed in the air for a second, followed by it meowing with disdain.

"What are you looking at?" he hissed, annoyed. He hated cats.

The lanky creature showed him its sharp teeth this time, but he decided to let it go, looking down at the floor instead. There, lying broken and shattered into pieces with dirt all around, was an old flowerpot. That had probably been the cause of his change in heartbeat.

He looked up only to find a window ledge with a similar pot over it, this one containing an orange tulip. It reminded him of those summer days he'd shared with her back in the Netherlands last year. It seemed like ages ago when they'd shared thoughts about marriage and how it would feel like to wake up next to each other for the rest of their lives, bonded by something deeper than what they did day after day to survive. They would think about sharing a cup of steaming hot coffee, gazing at the valleys of Lisse, her soft hands intertwining with his like many times—

Something moved inside the room and the light switched on, but he took off before he could find whose head peeked out the window.

The past minutes, as he crossed onto Calle de la Paja Street, he'd had a thought nagging the life out of him—a demand, to be exact. You need to start taking control of things again. Just because she felt tired of running away continuously—and he understood her frustration; he did share it, after all—didn't mean they could give themselves the luxury of a prolonged stay in one of the towns.

They'd done that once before and learned the consequences wholeheartedly.

She had been taking the lead lately, and their money was running low now. That's why it came across as crucial for her not to make any mistakes tonight. The last couple of days were horrible to cope with without her company, so it being all for nothing would mean time wasted. Time they risked on getting caught.