Hold on a second.
|Cynthia looked over at her husband behind the wheel. He was glancing at the rear-view mirror every few seconds through his new glasses, tortoise-shell horn rims, something an accountant would wear. But he’s not an accountant, Cynthia thought. He’s an attorney. A tough-guy lawyer.
Cynthia glanced at the passenger-side mirror and saw a dark car a block behind them.
She looked over at her husband again, at his neatly barbered hair, frosted at the temples, nose straight as the barrel of a gun. He could be a model, she thought. His eyes moved constantly to the rear-view mirror. Cynthia turned her head again to her side mirror. The dark car was still there. She turned back to her husband. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” he answered, eyes swiveling between the mirror and the road ahead.
“There’s a pharmacy up there,” said Cynthia, pointing. “Can we stop? I forgot my lipstick. Can’t be under-dressed, especially for Hamlet.”
“We don’t have time for this,” he said. “And the neighborhood’s bad.” But he pulled over across the street from the pharmacy. Cynthia reached for the door lock, but her husband placed his hand on her arm and said, “Wait.” He got out and swept the pavement in both directions with his eyes. The street was empty. “Okay,” he called.
As they emerged from the pharmacy five minutes later, the force of the explosion rattled the store’s windows, smeared with the orange reflection of the erupting fire that engulfed their car across the street. They dropped instinctively behind a large square metal trash container and Cynthia could feel the fingers of heat from the blast curling around to touch them. She looked down at the lipstick still clenched in her fist and said, “Guess we did have time after all.”
(Word count: 295)