For a few minutes, just 1000 words, you’ll be transported to a place of sand, sun, aspirations, and conflicts.
“Meet you at the lifeguard station,” Juanita said.
She stuffed the pre-paid flip phone into her daypack, locked the condo door behind her, and mounted the balloon-tired bike she used to get around town. A few blocks later she spied Rudy out on the sand straddling the same model.
“Hello,” she started.
“Hello yourself,” Rudy said as he lightly touched her fingertips. “It’s safe; safe to move them.”
“Are you certain? It’s only been five years—you said ten.”
“Forget what I said. I have the collectors lined up. They won’t wait any longer.”
She fidgeted with the daypack strap, wrapping her fingers in and out of the side loops. The heist seemed like yesterday and a million years ago. She’d pulled the gun on the gallery guard. She’d killed a man; a working class father of four. Now, she saw his eyes every night, awoke to them each morning. Yet she itched for the millions of Euros awaiting them in Switzerland. Once the money was hers, she’d forget about the murder and find peace in materialism.
Juanita snapped back. “For twenty years, I catered to those rich assholes, with their yachts and villas—price haggling. Look at me, hiding in this hovel of a town—waiting. So yeah, let’s do it now. If we’re caught moving the paintings, I’ll swap one prison for another,”
Rudy pulled the phone from the pack and hit green to call. “Bonjour, we are ready to go,” he said then pressed the end call button—red as the blood left behind.