Something to do
It was 9:30pm, pitch-black and cold. I’d been waiting in the car for 40 minutes and my fingers, despite the layers and the gloves, were frozen, cold and bone-white underneath, I imagined. I caught a glimpse of an indistinguishable silhouette in the cold glass – it was my own. Although I couldn’t see it, I knew the biting chill in the air had turned the tip of my nose raw crimson. I rolled out another succession of wispy breaths, the smoke curling as if from a quick and secret cigarette. I imagined the fizz of it on my lips and the rush, waves of pleasure forming ripples, reaching every nerve-ending in my body.
Shit! Patting down my pockets, I felt the handle of the knife and with it, relief: it was still there. I looked at my watch. She was late. She didn’t usually keep me waiting this long. I wasn’t exactly sure why I had chosen tonight, after all this time; perhaps I was bored of the whole thing. Bored of being good. Bored of towing the line. Bored of trying to fit in. Bored of being who everyone thought I should be; well, they wouldn’t be expecting this. If only they could see me here, sitting in my car with a knife, in wait. To have them sing to my tune for a change, to see the fear manifest itself in a trembling lip, a shaking hand, the vomit rising.
She got in the car, filling it with light as she’s opened the door. I didn’t even see her coming out of the building. The knife was tucked away neatly, thank god – a sleeping monster.
“Thanks for waiting, sis; you’re such a darling. Your eyebrows need plucking again; I’ll do them for you when we get home.” She checked her own lipstick in the her compact mirror.
I looked in the rearview mirror. “Thanks.” I started the engine.
Here we go again.