Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: Alan Berger

There she was.
Just sitting there.
At the local bowling alley with her friends.
As she was waiting for her turn, she thought how lovely it would be if later that evening, the sounds of the bowling balls hitting the pins on a power strike could, would, sound like the bullets going into her husband’s head. Or maybe it would sound like a thud, a thud perhaps from a baseball bat. She hadn’t decided that yet, and that, is how they met.
There he was.
Having a hamburger at a table with his friends, watching the ladies bowl and things.
One of her friends reminded her loudly that it was her turn, or, was she too busy thinking about how to kill her husband, again.
All her friends laughed including the table where he was having his hamburger.
But he did not laugh.
He stopped eating and started paying up even more attention.

He liked her looks and thought that perhaps she could use a, ”Hit-man”, and perhaps he could use this chance to become one.

He waited for her outside in the night. And when she went for her car, he introduced himself under a well-lit part of the the parking lot so not to scare her, then, slip into the darkness like some fucking hit-man musical.

Next thing you know they are fucking like it’s going out of style.
He had allergies and after blowing his nose once he asked her if she had any allergies.
Happiness, she answered.

He laid alone at night thinking about what kind of gun to buy for his first hit.
It was not that of an easy decision to make since the only gun he ever shot was a BB gun a million years ago.
He jerked off thinking of her as brand names like Glock and Smith and Wesson rolled around the private screening room in his head.
She was laying next to her snoring, boring husband thinking of him as she jerked off thinking of the sounds the killing would make and if it would be louder than the noise her husband was making.
She wanted a big bang for her buck, but she figured her hit man would do the right thing since death was his death was his living.
As he has been saying.

He was scared and he knew it.
But a deal is a deal.
Her husband woke up and asked her what’s up? How come you’re not sleeping.?
It’s not there she said said.
What’s not he said.
She said nothing, and in a tick or two he rolled over and went back from whence he came.
A sound from down the hallway pervades the silent , snoring night.
An infant voice . Sleeping, laughing and crying at the same time. Then a sneeze.
A familiar sneeze.
She runs to the sounds to of her child.
Over her shoulder her husband is right there behind her. At the ready.
She sees this and his support and concern for the child from her second marriage. This picture of the intended victim will stick to her ribs.
The kid has issues. but for even a ten-year-old boy, he has spunk.
He certainly didn’t get that from his real father.
But he would be called in the animal kingdom as well in the human kingdom the runt of the litter.
Weak. Ashma weak.
They played catch she remembered and when her son came home one day crying because some kids were making fun of his personal breathing habits the intended victim told him he was lucky to get so much attention and it was because the other kids saw that he was a future superstar but didn’t know how to say it. Their just jealous that’s all.
He bought that, the kid did, as well as mommy.
Back to bed soon everyone went.
Along with the snoring suffering and scheming.
The next morning was spent at the hospital.
The two of them ,husband and wife, sat in the try, cry, die area waiting for some test results regarding the third little member down the hall with his team of guesswork specialists.

They said it was a seizure.
They sent hem home with some meds.

Later that day she told her hit man the hit was now going to a non-hit.

They both felt very relieved about it.

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