4.
 Next day, on that same lunch odyssey, Jack spotted Book Woman. He paused outside the store window. She was ringing up a sale on an ornate brass cash register. Her sling today was dark blue, her fingers in fresh dressings. She wore a puffy-sleeved, light-cream-colored blouse with tiny blue periwinkles sparsely scattered over its rounded collar and modest surfaces. He studied her face, with its long, gently up-curved nose, narrow oval cheeks, and faintly pink lipstick. She had smooth, honey skin that invited a man’s fingertip touch. As Book Woman bent to pull out a plastic store bag to wrap the purchase, she glanced out the window. For a second, their eyes locked. She looked startled. A pleased look, almost a smile, briefly broke—a gray-gold sunrise over narrow cheekbones. The customer spoke, and Book Woman turned away. Jack met his co-workers at the food court, and forgot about her.
Director, wearing her most business-like political suit, held an all hands meeting in the lunch room. Jack stood among men and women from departments scattered on various floors. Director held a small microphone in candy-apple red fingernails. “You’ve seen the news. ATF confirms the explosion was no accident, and casualties are still being tallied. We don’t know who did it. FBI, ATF, and other Federal law enforcement departments are looking out for us, as are Mr. Herdaez, Mr. Martin, Mr. Bobula, and the rest of our enforcement team. We’re worried about the IRS offices beside the book shop.”
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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