I wonder what secret agents do when the the jobs done and they go home,
No doubt they are aching from head to foot, and every step it takes from the car dropping them off to the front door is like a mile and a half.
And, inside the door, do they drop the bag/case/duffel on the floor and just lean against it, and look at what is their ‘other’ world’, that one that doesn’t include luxuripous hotel rooms, the finest dining, and fastest cars, and weaponry.
You feel the inside of your jacket, and, yes, the gun’s not there because it had to be handed back, and for a moment you feel just a little unsafe.
You think, what if an enemy agent had been waiting for me, how would I defend myself. But there isn’t and you don’t have to.
The place has that slight musty smell about it, like you have been there for a month or so, because you haven’t, and your first inclination is to open the blinds and let the light in.
And then you think, no. I just need a rest,
Perhaps a drink first, check the pile of mail that had accumulated inside the door, perhaps a postcard from an acquaintance made.
There isn’t. And then you remember you were going to restock the bar, but that call came and you didn’t have time.
You stretch, and, yes, there it is, a strained muscle from that fall off the roof, that tug of a tendon that you pulled chasing a villain down the road, and then beiong chased by a car, didn’t thin you could outrun an Audi did you?
No, nothing to do but rest.
A slow shuffle to the lounge, use the remote to switch on the TV, change the channel to the news, what’s going on in the world.
An election. Damn.
How far away is that liquor store?