Instinct
She still habitually, not to say obsessively, checked her rearview for tails. She was throwing backward glances as she left the grocery store, but tried to mock herself back to reality: There was, she knew, no intrigue swirling around her bran cereal, vegetables, or frozen pizza. But her instincts refused to acknowledge her retirement.
She worked now at the local college, an adjunct lecturer. This low-key post was an ideal cover, but there wasn't anything to cover for, anymore. She told herself that this prosaic life--the shabby-chic house, the cat curled on the sofa, the monthly book club meeting--should be a blessing. She tried to believe that she was lucky to have survived to claim this prize, that the best might be yet to come. That's what the Company shrink told her, when she was decommissioned (just like a broken down tank).
Sometimes she courted danger. She left the house unlocked while she ran errands. She went for long walks through the darkened streets, ranging through what passed for bad neighborhoods in this small city. The house was never burgled, and she was never mugged.
Apparently some former agents tried sky-diving, BASE jumping, mountaineering. Anything for a jolt of adrenaline. Some found private sector gigs (no one used the term "mercenary" anymore) or tried to make do with the tamer thrills of industrial espionage. She thought it quite likely that some put steel barrels to their temples.
At 6:30 a.m., she slapped her buzzing alarm into silence. Then she waited. She drained all thoughts from her mind and held her body motionless beneath the covers. There would be a sign. A sight, a sound, a tingle of electricity would tell her what to do next, and forever. She would move frictionlessly through her routine, or she would rise into a new life. She would be, either way, content and complete.
The sun rose higher, the light from the window creeping across her comforter, sliding over the still slopes of her body. She waited, knowing she was missing breakfast, missing yoga, missing work, and not missing these things.
She watched the light change and fade. She thought it might be noon, or 1, or even later. Strangely, the emptiness of her stomach energized her. She felt calm but coiled, like a cat before the pounce.
The shadows lengthened. She watched them, looking for clues in the shifting shapes. She saw faces, minarets, mosques, animals. She listened to the muted sounds of her house (ice melting from the eaves, the hum of the furnace) and her neighborhood (a closing car door, passing footsteps). She felt a chill descend, and knew it must be late afternoon.
This was worth waiting for.
When the sign came, she would be ready.
She worked now at the local college, an adjunct lecturer. This low-key post was an ideal cover, but there wasn't anything to cover for, anymore. She told herself that this prosaic life--the shabby-chic house, the cat curled on the sofa, the monthly book club meeting--should be a blessing. She tried to believe that she was lucky to have survived to claim this prize, that the best might be yet to come. That's what the Company shrink told her, when she was decommissioned (just like a broken down tank).
Sometimes she courted danger. She left the house unlocked while she ran errands. She went for long walks through the darkened streets, ranging through what passed for bad neighborhoods in this small city. The house was never burgled, and she was never mugged.
Apparently some former agents tried sky-diving, BASE jumping, mountaineering. Anything for a jolt of adrenaline. Some found private sector gigs (no one used the term "mercenary" anymore) or tried to make do with the tamer thrills of industrial espionage. She thought it quite likely that some put steel barrels to their temples.
At 6:30 a.m., she slapped her buzzing alarm into silence. Then she waited. She drained all thoughts from her mind and held her body motionless beneath the covers. There would be a sign. A sight, a sound, a tingle of electricity would tell her what to do next, and forever. She would move frictionlessly through her routine, or she would rise into a new life. She would be, either way, content and complete.
The sun rose higher, the light from the window creeping across her comforter, sliding over the still slopes of her body. She waited, knowing she was missing breakfast, missing yoga, missing work, and not missing these things.
She watched the light change and fade. She thought it might be noon, or 1, or even later. Strangely, the emptiness of her stomach energized her. She felt calm but coiled, like a cat before the pounce.
The shadows lengthened. She watched them, looking for clues in the shifting shapes. She saw faces, minarets, mosques, animals. She listened to the muted sounds of her house (ice melting from the eaves, the hum of the furnace) and her neighborhood (a closing car door, passing footsteps). She felt a chill descend, and knew it must be late afternoon.
This was worth waiting for.
When the sign came, she would be ready.