Bamba, Bamba

By Skye Hoffert

Planning someone’s last song was a bit stressful. I fed the tabletop jukebox and took my sweet time choosing. A good song wouldn’t make the betrayal and ensuing death any easier to swallow, but choosing one might ease my conscience.

I ignored the toothy waitress, who smelled strongly of maple syrup and stale gum. The weathered vinyl was sticky and uncomfortable. I gave my pantsuit a quick tug to ease any wrinkles and ran a hand through my tangled bangs.

He was late.

I drummed my nails on the scuffed table, admiring the reflection of their red polish in the chrome edging.

The waitress slid a menu in front of me, her mouth curled in slight distaste.

I flashed my teeth at her. The feeling was mutual.

She popped a purple bubble in response and stalked away.

I opened the menu and pretended to browse, but I wasn’t going to be eating any of the artery-clogging food they served. He should have been here by now. I glanced around the dead diner to make sure he hadn’t already arrived before me. The only other patron was an older man, balding, with liver spots peppering his skin. Not Brian.

I reapplied my lipstick. Unnecessarily, but it made me feel prepared. I had broken a rule, and it made me feel as if my entire persona had collapsed. Which, in a way, I suppose it had. The “Lucy” that he had come to know and love could no longer continue to be. Management had made that very clear.

Brian was a good man, a little vanilla maybe, but sweet. Of course, I hadn’t expected to fall in love with him. I had never gotten emotionally involved with a mark before. When you know you’re going to kill someone, you tend to distance yourself.

But he had charmed me. We ate dinner together, strolled through the midnight air, and split a first-class piece of pie. The very thought of it made me want to risk the stale confections showcased near the register. Not that I had noticed the pastries.

I had better self-control than that, of course. Somehow, that one evening had turned into several months. It never occurred to me that Management wouldn’t be pleased, though now I felt stupid for giving in to my emotions. Careless—a word one would usually never associate with someone like me. Cold and unattached, even ruthless, were far more suitable adjectives. I fiddled with a salt packet and watched the passersby through the dingy and smeared window.

I enjoyed my civilian life, which surprised me. How did dinner parties and gardening become hobbies to someone like me?

Not that I really needed to ask the question. Brian was the culprit. He had been so refreshingly ordinary, but I didn’t want to think about him or the life we had shared. It was meant to be an act. All of it.

I had forgotten, which was a pathetic, yet serious, mistake for me.

I flipped through the coffee-and-grease-stained menu, then shoved it away and browsed through the song options again. I chose the one he had played the night we met. Sentimental, yes. But no one had to know that. A silly song, maybe. Not even English.

I thought about the .45 I had secured in the waistline of my pants. I’d have to do it fast before he made me change my mind. The fact that the booth was already mottled red comforted me. Made for easier clean up. Besides, what was one more hole in the tattered upholstery?

I shook my head at the cold thoughts. Old habits and all.

The bell above the door rang, and I knew without looking that it would be Brian. He was over ten minutes late, and he hated being tardy.

He appeared in my line of sight: mussed hair, blue eyes, and a rumpled pullover.

Who knew I’d fall for that pullover, of all things?

Brian leaned down, and I pecked his cheek. The scent of his aftershave was comforting; I would miss it. He gave the jukebox an approving nod before sitting.

He smiled at me, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. It didn’t bother me. After all, I was giving him the same manufactured grin.

A smudge of my Chanel lipstick stained his cheek. It seemed fitting.

“How was your day, darling?” My lord, I was laying it on thick. My acting skills might not be as good as I had believed.

“No busier than yours, I’m sure.” He rested his face on his fist, looking tired. His eyes were bloodshot and watery.

“That’s good to hear,” I drawled, already gripping the handle of my gun under the table.

It felt heavy against my thigh.

He looked out the window, his expression becoming somehow even more pathetic. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

I squinted at him but kept my smile pasted on. “Come to what, darling?” My cheeks were starting to hurt.

He brought a silver Glock into view.  He rested his arm casually on the table, his finger hovering over the trigger. “I was hoping you would wait ’til dinner.”

I didn’t have to fake the shock that settled over my features. “Darling?”

He closed his eyes and rubbed his jaw. “Let’s not play games, Lucy. You’re going to kill me.”

I tilted my head at him, keeping his gun in my peripheral vision at all times. I lifted mine into view, and he had the gall to smile.

“Didn’t I always say you were a pistol?”

My finger moved over the trigger. Smile gone, my reservations evaporated, even though it meant putting a hole in that stupid pullover and the ratty seat behind it.

We were in a Mexican standoff. All I could hear were the last strains of “Bamba, Bamba” as we both pulled the trigger.

Can you guess which song from the 1950's inspired this story? Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Skye Hoffert is a dreamer, who always had her nose in a book and her head in the clouds. She has spent more time in Narnia and Middle Earth than in reality. She makes her home in Canada, with her family of ten. She spends her days writing, painting, and procrastinating.

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