What Lovers Do

Too Grown for Games?

   The symptoms were getting worse. He couldn’t concentrate on one subject for more than five minutes because through some kind of ingenious association that he thought his brain was not capable of crafting, the blasted speedster would magically find his way into his mind and scramble all the thoughts peacefully organized in it. Just a sight of red anywhere was enough.

   Len flung the blueprint of the museum----the next heist destination----from his desk with a vexed flick of his hand and plunked himself down on the chair. He still had yet to accomplish the job; he had to assemble a one-time team for this specific business, conjure up a clever plan to execute it, memorize the security system like the back of his hand, prepare the necessary gears, and so on. But the goddamn Flash wouldn’t let that happen. Not since the evanescent mark he’d left never failed to invoke daydreams of the marker on random occasions. Len couldn’t even touch coffee ever since that night.

   Usually, he would keep everything related to his line of work at his ‘den’, as Barry Allen calls it, and live a modest life at his completely ordinary-looking home, but a dark, quiet surrounding was the perfect setting for him to be devoured in distracting thoughts. Len decided to work on his stuff at home for a change. The sole thing to keep in mind was preventing Lisa from storming inside without a warning because it did happen once in a while. She would immediately ask to join, and if they did start working together, it would only be a matter of time before she’d figure something’s up with him and begin deducing things he wouldn’t want her to. Oh God, the nightmares Lisa would give him if she ever found out…Len shuddered.

   Right now, there was too much going on in his head. The network of his neurons was strewn with the presence of the annoying brat buzzing about. Staring at the complex map of a latent jackpot with his mind drifting elsewhere would be absolutely meaningless at this rate. Len scoffed at himself, unable to believe what an obsessed freak he’d become, and hopelessly gazed out the window.

   As he lived on the top story of the building, the view was pretty neat. But it would have been so much more wonderful if there wasn’t a sumptuous hotel blocking 75 percent of the view right across his window. Perhaps it had its pros too because sometimes Len would absent-mindedly watch the real-life reality show airing from 70-ish different channels all at once. The guests there didn’t seem to care too much about their privacy, or maybe they were just oblivious to the fact that someone may be watching from across the street. And Len didn’t particularly become guilty of it because well, he was a criminal and it was sort of like an occupational habit to carefully observe his and other possible future victims’ surroundings. But would Barry disapprove?

   Fuck, I’m thinking about him again, Len thought.

   He scowled at the blameless Sun marking streaks of crimson to indigo on the sky as it sank behind the hotel building. It was 5 pm and the streetlamps were already illuminating the streets. As usual, the dark was very diligent during this season.

   Len broke his gaze with the outside world to make himself a cup of hot chocolate (because that’s his favorite) and forcefully stuffed his mind with thoughts of fluffy white marshmallows when he caught a flicker out of the corner of his eye. He looked back at the window; and there it was, a rectangular piece of paper blocking the last rays of the setting Sun.

   It was a cutout of a newspaper. A bold headline was shouting: “Captain Cold Saves the Flash?” Below was a fairly sharp image of himself, blasting the cold gun at the wretched man’s hand while Barry was frozen in his spot, taken aback.