Hitman

She sat on the slim edge of the park bench in the only spot the birds hadn’t tagged yet, twisting her fingers around a damp cloth. It was going on 2:15. She risked a glance around. A woman in her mid-forties, sweating in too-tight jeans and long-sleeves, Denise looked out of place among the young moms pushing strollers.

She wore too much makeup. If she painted herself just right, she thought she might come alive. She told him that once and he grabbed her nose and twisted it so hard she screamed. He laughed and called her Pinocchio as strings of vomit flew from her chin.

She had been pretty, but now pins held her together, her teeth were chipped and yellowed, and old bruising dappled her cheekbones. The real damage was beneath. Two days ago, he’d broken ribs on her left side, kicking her in the armpit while she lay on the kitchen floor.

Now 2:30, she worked the cloth harder and her right wrist resisted. He smashed that one with a frying pan last year, using the edge like a hammer. She touched her phone just as she saw a woman approaching, with a familiar walk. Her skin was milky-white, unblemished.

As she came closer, Denise realized the woman’s face was a younger version of her own. She said, “Denise, give it to me.” Denise rose, walking two paces to stand nose to nose with the woman, looking into her own eyes. She took a deep breath and crossed the final step, merging.

She hadn’t needed a hitman after all. When it was done, Denise had carved the snake tattoo off his neck with his own buck knife. She kissed the wrinkled wet skin now and placed it in the dirt, grinding it under her heel and left.