I crawl out of my skin and melt across the floor into a puddle of my own guilt. The tears somehow manage to hide themselves as I bury myself deep into the emptiness where I dwell. It has been months since my last cigarette. I now count the time in weeks instead of hours or days; 14 weeks of cravings have left me more energetic and much less interesting. “Good morning baby” she says to me half awake, “are you feeling ok?” “I want to die,” I mumble under my breath as I turn away. I bury my face between the blanket and the pillow. She slides over towards me as her hand caresses my shoulder, gently pulling me out of the darkness. “Come on honey,” she continues, “we had fun didn’t we?” I Pull back the choked up feeling in my throat. It burns as I withdraw its symptoms. “I don’t know.” I pause. “I guess.” “Baaaby,” she whispers in a sweet sexy voice that melts me all over again. I turn over to see her face. She’s happy to see me with a bright beautiful Smile. It devastates me. I pull back to withdraw my weakness. My eyes burn as I maintain her perception. “Something wrong honey?” she asks in confusion, wiping my cheek free of the pain. I grab her wrist, allowing a tear to mark its trail on my face. “I’m fine. You just melt me with your beautiful eyes,” I try to convince her as I pull her arm closer to my chest. She kisses the tear away from me with her soft lips. I want to tell her how much she means to me; how she makes me feel, and how I feel about myself when I’m with her, but instead I just squeeze her tightly in my arms. The concept of loving her seems selfish to me. Is it love? Would she have to feel the exact same way as I do in order for it to be a reciprocated love? I battle my thoughts instead of pouring my heart. I pull her head closely against mine as our lips meet; the heavenly sensation a temporary moment of euphoria. I grab her hair in my fist and pull her head back slightly. My sense of smell engages the line I draw across her lips and down her chin. “What should we do for breakfast? Are the pancakes coming?” she asks cheerfully as she pulls away. “Baby! What’s wrong?” she asks as she wipes my face again. “Nothing,” I confess to her. I look her in the eyes and she smiles. I try to smile back but my lips only purse slightly. “You know I was in the hospital not too long ago.” “Why?” she asks. “Were you sick? Do you have something?” she continues with self concern. “I collapsed a lung from smoking too much,” I answer her as my hand rises towards her face. Her hand rises to meet mine, but it is ignored as my fingers make their way to the top of her head. “I thought you didn’t smoke Adonis?” “Well, the problem worsened and I had pneumonia for a few days. And I don’t smoke...” I reply to her interruptive inquiry, “...but I used to.” My fingers caress her skin along the subtle lines of her face. She giggles and squirms in such a way that her head doesn’t move, allowing me to continue caressing her. “Do you want to talk about it?” she inquires in a more solemn tone. Her body slides to a stop as the room darkens. Her smile now resting peacefully in my memories. “Not if it’s going to take that smile away,” I joke. “We can if you want.” “It’s ok. I was thinking of making you pancakes, and maybe go check on them to make I have all the right ingredients…” “Don’t you change the subject,” she interrupts with an adorable concern of my emotional health. “…some bacon on the side,” I conclude. She smiles again. My chest lightens as the air sinks deeper into my lungs. I blink my eyes slowly as I enjoy the fragrance she radiates. The softness of her breath fills my heart as she laughs at me. “What are you doing?” “What?” I answer. “Are you smelling me,” she demands. “Noooo…” I sarcastically reply, revealing the opposite as truth. My eyes open to see her staring right into them. I hesitate, aware that my breath might require refreshment after a long night and an early morning. Such an interesting tool sarcasm has evolved into. From humor to anger, sarcasm serves as a defense mechanism for those that feel threatened and as a warning for those that intend to harm. “So pancakes?” she requests as her hand covers her stomach. “Yeah. I made you some.” “I don’t want bacon, Adonis,” she requests, “and maybe it would be better if you didn’t have any either, I want to keep you around for a while, ya know?” “I’m not going anywhere sweetheart,” I assure her, unsure myself if I truly feel that close to her on a sexual level to be calling her sweetheart, but I do nonetheless. “I like hearing you say my name.” “You like it when I say Jessica?” “Ooooh,” she replies with a sexy undertone, “say it again,” she asks of me as she grabs onto me, perhaps in a vain attempt to draw me closer, or perhaps to draw herself closer to me. “Jessica,” I repeat softly. “Could you make me something for my hangover?” she requests. “Hangover? Judging by that smile, I would have never guessed,” I reply. “Well, one of us has to smile, right?” she argues. “I suppose one of us has to bay…” she interrupts me with a stern, if not adorable, facial expression as she points her finger up at my chin. “I mean… Jessica. I’ll be right back with one of my famous Bloody Mary’s.” “Oooh, that sounds yummy,” she states as the smile returns to her face. Again I melt at the sight of her beauty emitting into the room. “Do you remember anything from last night?” “Not much,” I answer as a grunt escapes me. I raise my body as I pull my arm out from under her. “Wait,” she cries out silently. “What’s wrong babe?” “I’m not ready.” “You’re not ready for what?” I ask her. “I’m not ready for you to leave me.” A smile escapes from the side of my lips. I fall onto my back next to her. She crawls on top of me, dragging the blanket along with her. Her warm body strengthens my resolve. I smile as I look into her eyes. “I’ll be in the next room,” I assure her as I again attempt to leave the bed. The morning chill hits my body as I search for something to wear. “You mean the kitchen?” “Yes, the kitchen. Ten feet away” I sarcastically assure her once more as my search concludes with a pair of jeans on the dresser. “Ok, but don’t be long,” she requests as she watches me dress. I turn towards her as I zip my jeans. Her focus rises to meet my smile. “Well pancakes take a little while to make,” I answer gently; aware of her options to seek nourishment elsewhere. “Then make something else,” she proposes. “I don’t know if I have anything else.” I explain, “I can maybe scramble up some eggs,” I offer, hoping desperately to satisfy her hunger. She pouts. I move back towards the bed. She lifts the covers, displaying her naked body before me. My gaze crawls across her skin, slowly absorbing every curve. “You look good enough to eat,” I tell her. “First you feed me, then you can eat,” she negotiates. “Deal,” I answer as I leave the room. I drag myself through the short corridor and into the kitchen. She stays in the bedroom. The sliding door to the balcony on the opposite side of the bed is half open, letting a gentle breeze caress the sheet covering her slender body. My finger flips the light switch to my left. The light bounces around the room, awakening the cabinets and alerting them of my presence. But otherwise, they stay silent, aware my calm demeanor is false facade quickly replaceable and often short lived. The room brightens quickly as the cabinets reflect the bulb’s incandescence with humility. My old place back in Queens would have had little creatures scattering for the shadows in the cracks where the wall fell short of meeting the floor and ceiling. But here the only life I see is my own, and that is a change I have never grown used to. I squint briefly. The light takes a moment to adjust as my pupils dilate to match the barrage of energy-saving bulbs lining the ceiling. They flicker once to allow my eyes time to adjust. A lonely light bulb fills the room with an unnatural incandescence as the others flicker again, fighting for currency to placate their electric desires while the main bulb covers for them. “Okay, aye’ll wate for thah pancaaakes,” I hear her say from across the apartment in a long drawn out yelp, unexpected from the beautiful dame with the long blonde curls that covered my pillow just moments ago and now stands just inside the doorway of the bedroom to make sure I can hear her in the kitchen. The rumble of the subway a few blocks away muffles her voice, but I manage to make out the words wait for pancakes, and I know she’s staying in the bedroom from lack of footsteps through the squeaky corridor, so I am safely alone in the kitchen for the moment. “I’m checking,” I shout against the wall as I open the cupboard, ignoring the promise I’m breaking as I search through my arsenal tucked away behind cans and other groceries neatly rotting across the front of the shelves. My nine-millimeter Beretta lies in front of the instant batter, so I take the opportunity to set aside the batter, figuring I might as well make pancakes for myself once I’m able to get rid of the gorgeous and bubbly actress filling my bed with her empty spaciness. But she doesn’t sound like she has any intent on leaving anytime soon. Perhaps keeping her out of the kitchen for the remainder of her stay will help alleviate the stress of a stranger’s presence in my dwelling. The Beretta’s darkness comforts me like a warm hug from my loving mother as I grip the handle and thumb the hammer gently, avoiding any strange sounds that wouldn’t agree with my claim of breakfast in the works, but fighting the urge to cock the hammer and treat my guest to a little unexpected action. If only I had known who she was, she would be on my list with a real name instead of a question mark. But now it’s too late, and I know she’d never be able to keep a secret; all actresses are the same; desperate to climb the social ladder far beyond the clouds into the thin air where their personalities drift aimlessly. So, my semi-famous fling entertains herself on my California king, waiting a breakfast I have yet to start creating. I caress the handle and then the barrel before flipping the safety off. The clip is fully loaded as I insert it inside the handle; I can feel the weight of the firearm is heavier from the nine bullets impatiently waiting along the lining of the handle, confirming the clip is fully loaded. Not today, I jokingly think to myself, snapping the safety back on and returning my beloved to her place behind the groceries lining the shelves. She pushes gently against the magnum quietly lying next to her, then retreats back into her place behind the spot reserved for the flour. She lets out a sigh of boredom as she acquiesces to her place on the shelf, knowing when her time comes, it will be bloody loud with screams of her victims echoing into eternity as their souls collect in my hip pocket, but for now, she must wait patiently for me to once again release the safety and unleash my fury. On the shelf below, the two clips filled with the hollow-points shine against the unnatural light from the center of the kitchen. The bulb above the sink flickers a few times to reflect along the barrel of the nine and 44 next to her, then dims as the other lights finally steady off and shine as expected. But then again, maybe after breakfast, I joke to myself again as I pull her a few centimeters closer to the edge of the shelf, teasing her of an adventure she will not get to enjoy. I remember the last one I had to dispose of, and the stains all over the walls of the hallway that took hours to clean up, all because she was hungry while I was asleep. The neighbors never knocked once, and the police were never summoned, but the thunderous booms of life terminated surely woke someone up out of their slumber. I always wondered how many times in the big city can a man get away with such crimes unnoticed by his indifferent neighbors, but their aloof perspective is a camouflage I welcome into my profession. A smirk escapes my lips as I reach for the batter, holding the weight of my body against the fragile cupboard door, supporting my weight but under protest. I add a few extra spoonfuls to the mix to balance out for the excess water and cream I just added, stirring the mix into a blend capable of frying into some sort of pancake-like substance. I stir the blend with my left hand, my right shuts the cabinet door then grabs hold of the mixing bowl to offer more leverage as I whip up the carb-filled diet to feed my new guest. Sugar! I forgot sugar I think to myself as the blend begins to form into an edible consistency. The cabinet door slams shut to the force of my arm’s weight as my body sways with the swing of the shutting cupboard door; a motion I have repeated all too often after a long night of wrestling strange against my soft silk sheets, but rarely for the batter instead of the hammer. The sound stirs my new love out of her short-lived morning nap just minutes after waking up from the night. She calls out for my attention from the doorway again. An emotion I have rejected for far too many lonely nights, I yearn for an equal to reciprocate my affection, but the more they yammer on about themselves, boasting of minor social and economic victories, the more I yearn to return to the mountains where I once trained in the fine art of assassination. I place the child locks back on the cupboard handles, providing little protection from the curious and hungry alike, but offering a slight delay should their curiosity lead them towards my secrets. The picture of my next target carelessly taped against the inside door of the handle lifts into the air as the door pulls his image into the darkness. I graze my fingers against the face portion of the picture, empathizing with the loss he will soon feel in a very real way. For the first time in a long time, I’ve opened this door for the purpose of extracting food instead of ammunition and weapons. The last one was nosy, and curiosity killed her kitten before I could even taste it. But now, there’s one with enough self-esteem to find herself content not to wander about my unit as if becoming accustomed to her future husband’s place of residence. I feel a rumble in my stomach as I ignite the stove. The pan heats quickly, and the smell of frying bread fills the hallway. I hear her footsteps quietly sneaking towards me. “The bathroom’s on your left” I call out to her, allowing her the insight of my keen senses and the denial of invitation to join me in the kitchen. She pauses her steps, then turns into the bathroom as predicted. The footsteps continue progressing towards me passed the bathroom after she finishes checking her beauty against the mirror above the sink.