A man sits at the bar of a cocktail lounge. The man’s name is Jackson, not that it matters. He is alone, empty barstools on either side. On the bar, a gin martini, very dry, two olives. Behind the bar, a wide mirror and his reflection. And as a backdrop to his reflected image, pedestrian legs scurry past a bank of sidewalk-level windows. Plato’s cave at rush hour.
Jackson is thirty-five, wears an affordable suit, faux regimental tie, loosened, collar button undone. He sips his martini, savoring the idea of getting moderately drunk, a salve to the drudgery of his workday.
The scene changes. Another reflection walking toward the bar. Heels clicking against the tiled floor. A woman, young, attractive, black power suit, vee-neck blouse, décolletage. The reflection resolves to reality standing just behind his left shoulder. A hand resting on the back of the empty stool. Then a feminine voice, almost a purr, speaking to his mirror image.
“Do you mind?”
Jackson nods, waves an open hand, reaches for his martini. The woman slides onto the stool, adjusts her skirt. The bartender appears.
“Manhattan, please. Rye, one cherry.”
Jackson drains his glass, points a finger at the dead soldier. The bartender nods, slips away like smoke. A silent pause, neither intimate nor awkward, while the two strangers wait.
The drinks arrive, two olives swimming in Jackson’s second martini, one brandied cherry speared and balanced on the rim of the woman’s manhattan. Jackson catches the bartender’s eye, forks his fingers to point to both drinks, then to himself. The bartender nods again, vanishes.
The woman reaches for her drink, traps the cherry spear with her index finger, raises the glass. Half the manhattan slides past her red lips. She smiles, places the glass on the bar.
Jackson speaks to her reflection.
“Looks like you needed that.”
“You have no idea. Thank you for the drink, Jackson.”
He blinks in surprise, turns, catches her in profile.
“How do you know my name?”
Facing him now, her eyes bright, smiling.
“That’s a secret. I can whisper it. Would you like that? You have to say yes.”
Jackson nods.
“Yes.”
Turns back to the mirror, leans his head close to hers, feels her breath on his ear. Then the whispered words.
“Trafalgar. Three-One-Four. Halifax.”
Jackson sits bolt upright. Slips his right hand into his suitcoat, removes his wallet, waves it at the bartender. The bartender appears, slides the tab across the bar. Jackson peels bills from the wallet, tosses them on the bar, rises from his stool without waiting for his change.
He walks across the floor with a determined stride. The woman swivels her barstool to track his progress. Jackson takes the interior steps like a dancer, flings open the door, vanishes.
Two seconds later, she sees Jackson’s legs appear in the window. Two swift strides, a halt, a ninety-degree turn, then three steps to the edge of the sidewalk. A pause as traffic whips past on the busy street. Jackson leaping from the curb, the blur of an express bus, a dull thud heard even inside the bar, screeching brakes. Pedestrian legs dashing across the horizontal bank of windows, all moving left to right. Screams.
The woman turns back to the mirror, raises her glass, drains it. A cellular phone appears in her hand. She presses a preset number. Two tinny chimes, then a voice.
“. . .”
“Yes. Three-One-Four. Complete success.”
“. . .”
“Yes, deceased. Quite.”
Clicks the phone dead. Lifts the speared cherry, raises it to her lips. Traps the cherry behind her flawless smile. Withdraws the plastic spear, plucks away the stem, drops both into the empty glass. Allows the cherry to drop onto her tongue. A lingering moment to savor the flavor. Then she rolls the brandied fruit from her tongue, crushes it between her teeth.
Marco Etheridge is a writer, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over 180 reviews across Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Europe, the UK, the USA, and India. Marco’s story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco serves as a contributing editor for Hotch Potch Literature and Art and as a reader for Marrow Magazine. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.