A final drink

The whiskey glass is once again empty. How long has it been? Two hours? Maybe four? Why haven’t the police arrived? Shaking the slowly disappearing ice cubes, she saunters back to the bar for another. The terrace door is still open and the wind in this penthouse is almost colder than her demeanor. She had imagined feeling better, even vindicated but this sense of power was an unexpected gift.

There was no defining moment, no straw that broke the camel’s back and no cartoon light bulb that made her realize she could no longer continue with him. It wasn’t premeditated as they say, unless of course you consider dreaming of someone’s gruesome death for the past 10 years premeditated. Her years in the boardroom, negotiating insurmountable contracts and placating ornery old men, prepared her to judge any situation and respond with decisiveness and confidence. Self awareness and understanding were her forte.

The guests had left as they always did, a little tipsy and a little embarrassed by his behavior toward her. She had finished placing the dirty glasses in the dishwasher reliving the evening and once again dreaming her dream, as he went to the terrace. He leaned his drunken body against the railing beckoning her with the familiar derogatory comments and lurid remarks, and she saw her opportunity. She approached him with a seductive smile on her face and an urgency in her step. Without hesitation, she pushed him. It was easy. He didn’t scream or yell, just fell looking up at her with that quizzical expression.

She stared at his body askew in in the alley but only for a few moments and then she went to pour herself a congratulatory cocktail . The penthouse was silent, except for a faint siren getting louder.