Breakfast With the Enemy

I noticed that my fingers were shaking. As he walked in, I inserted my right hand into my pocket. 

Adam walked in in a long black coat. He took it off as he spotted me at a corner table.  The blue jeans and black t-shirt helped me relax a tad bit; this was a casual meeting. As he walked closer, I spotted the faint outline of a gun in its holster. Panic set in once again; I had to insert my left hand into my pocket.

"Hi!" Adam said, as if we were two old friends meeting up for a cup of coffee. The television was switched on, and the two teams came on to the pitch. I felt my stomach sink, as if absorbing the feelings of the 22 players who had just walked out of the tunnel for one of the biggest games of their careers.

"How are you?" I responded weakly. As always, he quickly caught me in the act.

"The more you stare at it, the more scared you will get."

I wanted to scream; I wanted to tell him that a loaded gun, regardless of the purpose, was not something I would get comfortable with. I did not even know why he had asked me to breakfast.

"Adam, why am I here?" I asked.

"Easy, there! Order breakfast first."

And so I did. Pancakes and coffee. I was really hankering for a cup; in the background, I heard a roar. I switched my attention to the screen. I saw the score-line and the celebrations; I relaxed a tad bit.

My coffee arrived soon after; long before it arrived, my anxiety had kicked in.

"Adam, tell me now!"

"I wanted to meet you and ask you how you are doing!"

"That can't be right! You could have come over to my place or asked me to come over to yours. Why are we meeting at this particular location?"

Adam took a deep breath before he answered. But, he didn't answer.

"Do you know the manager over there?" he asked as he pointed to a man standing by the TV screen, watching the game while wearing the colors of the losing side.

"Yes, I do." I answered. I knew him in the way in which you know your neighborhood deli owner. 

"He was in the army with me."

Adam's response made me uneasy; they had won the war but there were rumors of a traitor. I was hoping I was wrong.

We made casual conversation and I enjoyed breakfast; my focus on the game calmed me down. When the final whistle blew, my hands stopped shaking. My team had won, narrowly, by a single goal. Within seconds, I heard a gunshot. Beneath images of my favorite players celebrating, the manager lay in a pool of blood, shot by my ex-husband. As he got up to leave, Adam turned around and fired a shot straight at me; I moved leftward and the shot missed me narrowly. 

"Be careful", he said as he walked out, leaving me in his wake.