The Girl with the Pearl handled Pistol

Black leather gloves blend away into the early morning mist. The hand inside them clenches around the grip, forefinger twitching over the trigger. Dark androgynous clothes hide her shape and a balaclava covers her face. She stands still as the dead, breath held and eyes wide. She is ready, waiting like a panther in the concrete jungle. The hum of the tracks tells her a train is coming, the first tube of the day. She presses her back against the grey wall and glances along the platform. The station is empty. The train rattles into view. She bites her lip. It screeches to a halt and the doors slide open. The pearl handle of the pistol shimmers beneath the fluorescent light.

He steps out. The only one so early. She raises the gun. The doors bleep and close. As the train pulls away he walks towards her. His shoulders are heavy and his eyes weary.

Her hand is shaking and her strength wavering. Then she sees the look on his lying, cheating face. ‘Nightshift, ha!’ she thinks. She knows he lost his job weeks ago. He has been with that tart again. Her hand steadies and she fires. The shot shatters the quiet Sunday morning loud as a cannon. She waits but the station is unmanned. Nobody comes. He crumples and falls, clutching his chest. It is done. She slips away to return to her bed and await the inevitable call.

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