The CIA Blues
The doorknob is worn thin, gold leaf rubbed away to pewter where too many hands have turned it. Evidence of use. Evidence of repetition.
“I didn’t pay for this,” he says, fingers tightening around the handle. “You’re not supposed to do this.”
The metal gives way with a dry snap. The knob breaks loose in his hand, crystalline, brittle. Gold fragments scatter briefly under the halogen light before settling.
Dust drifts through the hollow shaft where a screw once held the mechanism together. The broken thread remains lodged inside the knob, a blunt spine of metal dulled by age. He turns it once in his palm, then stills.
He doesn’t withdraw. His movements slow, coordination lagging intent. He feels her heartbeat—steady, mechanical in its regularity. The sensation calms him in a way that feels unearned.
The fan overhead accelerates, chopping the air, distributing heat and scent and residue. The room grows thick, as if holding its breath. As if it remembers this configuration.
He shifts uneasily. His eyes track the fan’s rotation. Something about it unsettles him, its speed, its certainty.
“This isn’t what I paid for,” he says. His voice is tight, practiced, trained to manage panic rather than prevent it.
He reaches for his bag on the hook by the door. Lightning quick, she snatches it out of his hands and opens it before he can stop her, fingers efficient, searching. She produces a small bottle and reads the label.
“Clonazepam,” she says. “For anxiety. Lucky you.”
So, I’m currently writing my new book And I thought what’s wrong with a little motivation. I’m offering free public readings of abou a quarter off chapter. Maybe some people will want to read more and subscribe and, maybe, pay me a little to read my stories. I’m going to try it for way. And subscribers get the full story…
If you’re feeling generous, a tip would be welcome
