2.13.14.

“Afternoon.” He said casually, walking into Bergman’s on a rainy afternoon.

“Afternoon.” I replied, just as casually. Then I returned to my magazine and he set his attention on his shopping. After a while I noticed something was off.

“Excuse me?” He said, nervously.

“Yes?” I answered, equally nervously.

“I wonder if you’d mind coming outside.” He said, very softly.

To which I silently responded. I stood. I walked outside, and he followed me. I left Bergman’s and I left the cash register and I left the 8.80 per hour paycheck that was coming to me and I left my magazine.

“Here, get inside.” He commanded gently, pulling open the door to the black sedan parked at the curb. I got inside.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“I have to.” He said. Lowering the gun, he slid into the passenger seat up front and the driver started forward. The zip, zip swoosh of tire spinning on wet pavement trilled beneath the car and I held my breath.

“Where are we going?” I asked quietly.

“Please don’t ask that.” He answered quietly.

“Alright.”

When he left me, I could tell he was sorry. And that almost made up for it. But not quite.