A couple sips, then it all flowed out.
Of Mr. and Mrs.
By Tyler Lucas Mobley
A couple sips at a table in front tall street facing windows, a tension hotter than the steam swirls between them. The occasional reflection of passing cars is a game of pong across their faces. Both easy on razor cliffs, any disturbance could cause a sudden plummet. They wait, for what neither is sure. The photograph of a woman she put on the table hasn’t moved, yet they both know that’s why they’re here. How to set a boulder in motion you know you won’t be able to stop? His hand reaches for the photo with an intention of coming clean, but when he picks her up he can’t. ‘What’s stopping you,’ she fires. ‘You,’ he replies half serious. Her smile condescends, eyes dagger, he feels weak, but knows how to appear strong. ‘You know if I do this you’ll never put it away, you have to do it.’ This bastard is trying to stroke my gorilla, have to take your nuts now sunny Jim. ‘That’s what you think will resolve this, if I wet your beak? Say I do, where does that leave us? huh?’ she whisper snarls with a brow throw at the end that adds emphasis by orders of magnitude. His hand reaches up like someone just put a rope around his neck, but nothing is there. Any normal couple in the midst of such a free fall would let the parachute pass them by, but with skills of experience and a job on the table come close, and they won’t let it slip away.
The woman in the photograph walks past the window, eyes dart then crochet back together knowing what must come next. At the shell game table the middle is drawn, in his hand as she thought he might. This is her plan; go along, look to counter. The street is busy but they hear only what they need to, tracking the bounce of auburn hair a squirrel hop ahead. Just out for a walk meanwhile closing in, as internals speed up the world slows. Then he sees it, all at once laid out before him, the counter, he continues on and waits for the target to be in position. Entering the town square she disarms every resemblance to herself she can’t stop finding in the one they follow. I can’t blame his taste, lethal women. Focus, he’ll be up to something.
He stops, takes aim and fires two shots at the bell tower above the square, the ping echoing throughout. Everything is quiet, no one moves, interrupted by a thunderous crack followed by the biggest ring of the bell the town had ever heard. Everyone drops and covers their ears, the silverware on the cafe tables tremble with joy. With all blind from the sound only he saw what happened because he’d seen it before. The bell tumbles off its tower performs an Olympic dive and lands cookie cutter over his beloved target. He smirks with the gods then looks over to his partner, blood lining her jar, and mouths, ‘I’m ready.’ She already has it drawn, a shot sounds, this time no one hears. At the precise moment a piece of metal flung high in the sky during the critical failure of connectivity, falls inches before his face deflecting the bullet. They both look at each other with a ‘in that case’ face and mutually agree to get out while they’re ahead.
A hand emerges beneath the bell after digging an air passage through broken cobbles. Over the hours it took to extract her from beneath the bell, the clapper that nearly split her in two offers a strange companionship in the lonely space. She steps from hollow darkness into his arms never to leave. Everyone’s hearing returns within a few days, though some still suffer from occasional ringing. Waiting on her train to Brno a man in the station greets her with flowers and after a long kiss says, ‘you kept me waiting.’ Her eyes say it all.
Letters of Measure 