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The Kitchen


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.
The room brightens quickly. 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. Here the only life I see is my own.
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.
A lonely light bulb fills the room with an unnatural incandescence as the others flicker, fighting for currency to placate their electric desires.
“Okay, aye'll wate for thah pancaaakes.” I hear 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.
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, so I am safely alone in the kitchen.
“I’m checking,” I reply 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.
Its darkness comforts me, 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.
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.
I caress the handle and then the barrel before flipping the safety off. The clip is fully loaded; I can feel the weight of the firearm is heavier from the nine bullets impatiently waiting along the lining of the handle.
Not today, I jokingly think to myself, snapping the safety back on and returning my beloved to her place behind the groceries. She pushes gently against the magnum quietly lying next to her. He lets out a sigh of boredom as he acquiesces to his place on the shelf, knowing when his time comes, it will be bloody loud with screams of his victims echoing into eternity as their souls collect in my hip pocket.
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.
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. 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. The neighbors never knocked once, and the police were never summoned. I always wondered how many times in the big city can a man get away with such crimes unnoticed by his indifferent neighbors.
A smirk escapes my lips as I reach for the batter, holding the weight of my body against the fragile cupboard door. I add a few extra spoonfuls to the mix to balance out for the excess water and cream I just added. 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.
The cabinet door slams shuts 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. The sound stirs my new love out of her slumber as she calls out for my attention.
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. 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.
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.
I feel a rumble in my stomach as I ignite the stove.
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.
The footsteps continue progressing towards me passed the bathroom.

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