Isola moved out of bed in a shadow at an early hour of the day. Her voice hacked through the mucous in her chest and throat telling the man to leave. She lit a cigarette and the light just streaming in showed her body’s silhouette under her white shirt. She sat at the edge, her foot playing with a piece of footwear, leaning to her hand pressed into the musty sheets saying again, “Leave”.
“I’m going,” he said, “but let me tell you what I dreamt.” He rambled on about a convoluted sequence of events as if his unconsciousness could save him. She finished her cigarette while pulling on jeans and emptied a bottle by the bed, into her mouth not even looking down as she slips her feet into expensive shoes. She wiped her lips of the liquor and flipped open a matchbook. She asked, “Is that it?”
Isola struck a match to light the book. The man jumped out of bed grabbing for clothes as she tossed the flames at him. She pulled a pistol from under her pillow and shot three times at him. He collapsed, just as he would have if he had lived a full life. He was dead just the same. Isola had swiped his money in the dark and now as she jumped through a window into the sunlit day, she cleared her throat, spitting the loose phlegm to the trash collected on the ground.