A Quiet Cafe

A Quiet Café

D. A. Ratliff

I approached the café where we were meeting and rehearsed what I wanted to say. At least, what he expected me to say. Would it be the truth? No. That wasn’t part of the game we were playing—only he didn’t know it was a game.

The small outdoor tables, decked out in checked linen tablecloths, sat unoccupied this late mid-week afternoon, which was exactly what I wanted. I didn’t mind being seen, but I did mind being overheard.

He approached and called my name, the one he knows me by, and I glanced up, gave him a brief smile, and continued to scroll through my phone. My disinterest always enticed him more.

“My dear, you look as beautiful as always.” He took my hand, kissing my knuckles. I despise a man who grovels.

“Thank you, Pierre, you always say the kindest things.” Before he arrived, I ordered a pot of coffee and a plate of pastries. “May I pour you a cup?”

He never refused me. “I would love a taste of your… coffee.”

I forced a smile. “Ooh… you are naughty.”

I passed the small cup to him and then began my rehearsed spiel. “Pierre, you have no idea what it means to me that you were so willing to help me. My brother is a burden and finds himself in so much trouble.”

“It was my pleasure to help you. I know how worried you are that the people he is involved with will kill him.”

“I do not know what I would do if I lost him.” On cue, tears rolled down my cheeks.

He reached across the small table to grab my hand. When he touched my ring, he peered closely at it. “This is beautiful. Is it new?”

“An antique. I found it in a great little store.” I held up my hand so he could see it more closely. "It’s silver, with filagree and amethyst. Quite old, the shop owner said. It's a bit too big for me, so it keeps turning around. But I love it.”

“It is beautiful like its owner.”

I feigned embarrassment. “Again, you are kind. Forgive me, I must ask. Were you able to get the information?”

The fussy little man grinned and patted his suit pocket. “I would never fail you. It wasn’t easy. I feared they would catch me downloading, but I managed to secure all the data before anyone returned to the server room.”

I picked up my coffee cup. “A toast to my savior.” We both drank all the coffee from the small china cups.

“May I have it?”

“Of course.” He reached into his suit's inner pocket, withdrew a flash drive, and passed it to me.

I slipped it into my purse. “I have time for one more cup of coffee before meeting my brother and the monster blackmailing him. Pass me your cup.”

He complied, and as I began to pour, I held my other hand over the cup. The ring had spun underneath my hand. With my thumb, all the while keeping him occupied with chatter, I pressed the lever, and a few grams of cyanide fell into his coffee.

“Let’s have another toast, one to us. Now that this is behind me, we can plan our future. Starting with dinner tonight.” I raised my cup, as he did, and clinked china. I pretended to drink. He drank.

It took only seconds for the cyanide to begin his path to death. I walked away calmly to the end of the block and turned the corner. I entered a busy chain coffee shop and hurried to the restroom. I removed the blonde wig and tossed the dark brown contacts in the toilet. I pulled off the slacks and top, revealing leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. Small flats replaced my heels. I unfolded a small tote I had stuck in my pocket and shoved the wig, clothes, shoes, and purse inside.

On the way out, I stopped to get a coffee and then made the call as I walked past the café. People gathered around Pierre as a siren wailed in the distance.

“It’s done, and the data is secure. Please tell the client his concerns were valid, and his suspected thief is neutralized.”

At the corner, as I waited for the ambulance to turn onto the street, I peeled the fake fingerprints off, throwing them in the gutter. It felt good to be me again.

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This story was written for the Facebook group Writer’s Unite!’s Sunday writing prompt, What’s Next? The image and first line are given, and you tell what’s next in a story of 800 words or less.