The Very Last Call

Somewhere in the cold winding absences of Patricia’s nearly vacated mind, there was a recognition of the sharp dagger that was currently embedded into the teak cabinetry. It was still vibrating and Patricia was soon occupied by a new thought.

Does that scary man have any more cutlery to throw at me?

The answer did not come as quickly as the man did. She clumsily began running from behind the bar as he hunched over the marble surface. She turned back and saw a shining line in the faint light imply another knife. Judging by the fact that he didn’t throw this knife, Patricia decided she had made a dreadful mistake by not taking the dagger embedded in the expensive cabinet door.

Without a weapon or even a clue to why she suddenly needed a weapon, Patricia found herself through the door and running down the pavement. Through the the empty starry night he was still bounding towards her in a sloppy stride. She took misbegotten solace in the fact that he was taxed in weight by the two knives he was holding. As she cleared the corner, she also took solace in the running shoes she wore despite the dress code expressly forbidding it.

He came after, taking the corner over zealously and almost landing squarely in the puddle next to the curb. Patricia was using the last wind of a long night and it was running out. All her mother’s bullshit fears of the late night shift had found flesh and most assuredly would be raping Patricia soon. Then he would turn her into a suit. As she leaned against a brick wall in an intersecting alley, Patrica could find nothing left.

Then she heard a wheeze and then someone fell down. It was him. He was just this big pile of trench coat and fat and he was on the ground helpless. She approached and he stared up at her holding 20 dollars outstretched. It was Andy Trencher: long time patron, first time knife wielding lunatic.

“Sorry, I saw you alone in there and thought it was close to Halloween…”

She smiled as she she kneeled next to him, taking the 20.

“It’s okay.”

Her hair was black, framing an almost ghost white face. She looked so fragile, so kind. She cradled his chin in her hand. With her other hand, she took the dagger he had thrown at her and sliced his throat open. As the cold October air entered the wound, he sputtered and tried to scream. Sadly, she had been too forceful with her slash and that was all but impossible. She turned him over and quickly found his wallet and 200 more dollars.

The dagger was cheap and she knew wasn’t losing much by dropping it in the puddle but the calf skin wallet filled her with regret as she ruined in the murky waters. Alleviated of all inexplicable fingerprints, she ran back to the bar and then the shower her employer had thoughtfully installed. This was of course after she dead bolted the door.