I lower my aim. Target leans forward, elbows propped, legs stretched and crossed at the ankles. Paper cups are pushed aside. They are aware only of each other. Crumbs trail the paper napkin bridging the distance where their fingers almost touch. I am sure he wears his special cologne, the one that smells of the breeze.
It is now or never. Last time and I will walk away forever. I lift my aim, slow my breath. He runs a hand over his chin. A shadow of stubble hides his skin. He smiles. I shoot. He doesn’t know I exist. The shutter closes and traps him before he reaches for those fingers.
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