Killing with Kindness

Chapter 1

No better way to start a murder than with coffee.
I prefer a dark, strong brew, black as the notion that I, a dad, would indeed commit this unsettling crime.
So here I was, practically stalking her. The one I would kill.
Efficiently, I located her in the sparsely populated room. Couples mooned over one another in the back in cozy maroon booths as frantic college students wrote under metallic lamps hanging periodically above tall tables. Ana was sitting with another friend at a corner table, the only one relaxed but obviously not entranced in some love foolishness.
The jarring voice of a barista shook me from my thoughts.
"Sir... sir? Excuse me, I have your order. Mister!"
Annoying baristas. They always seem to catch you at the wrong moments. For example, planning a murder. There was no harm done, it wasn't like I would end up attached to this girl. There's absolutely no reason to. Afterall, I'm going to kill her, rescue my son, and hopefully catch a few free meals. Simple.
I glanced at the barista. He was obviously disgruntled from his long hours behind a hipster register that closely resembled a rusted typewriter. The appeal of the style was understandable, however our small town made the modern look seem ridiculous.
The gold painted chess sets scattered around the room were a pain to the eyes, and the hanging lights were a tad exaggerated. So many useless items were thrown across the space, all getting increasingly absurd. Who wants to sit on a crate? Why are you decorating with rusty slop buckets? The impracticality would make any sensible midwestern man shudder.
Turning away from my thoughts (as well as the ludicrous decor), I took my coffee -dark as my soul- and walked off to a table close by, like any true midwestern man. Books flooded out of my backpack, a semester's worth of horrors. Good thing I had my coffee to keep me awake.
To be honest, my copy of Moby Dick was a marvelous addition to the decor. More needless junk to decorate the cafe. I'm sure my broken pencils were a masterpiece next to the barn lamp set on my table. Aren't flannels now in the height of fashion? I've been mocked for wearing them my whole life, now I just look trendy.
I scoff silently and take a long sip.
"Ugh!! What sorry attempt at coffee's this?!?!"
With a glare at the barista I peer into my cup. I crinkle my nose.
That drink was like stewed grass stomped by a stampede of billy goats. Luckily, I heard a voice nearby.
"What is this terror! How is this my beloved green tea? Kayle, it tastes like burnt tar!"
Well, there's my coffee. With a nice young lady who has shimmering black ha- oh crap. Just my luck for it to be the one I was here for the first place.
She was even in a stupid yellow sweater! My ma would make me wear those blasted cardigans all the darn time. Somehow she made it work. That was a feat in its own. Such fashion choices shouldn't belong to anyone, at any time period, but she changed my mind slightly. Mind you, I still hate those sweaters. I've just modified that hate slightly.
Dammit, I can't keep doing this. I need to get back on topic. This is a serious matter and I cannot be debating her fashion sense. It's a murder I'm planning, not a fashion magazine.
Man, I can't believe I'm doing this. For the last couple days, I've been sitting in the same coffee shop waiting for the woman I'm supposed to kill. Waiting, and waiting, every day with less and less confidence. With my luck, it's not a surprise that I would be confronted with the task to actually speak to her. I take one last look at her from my table. She had a messy mop of glossy black hair and honey colored skin that shimmered in the cheap lighting of the coffee shop. So I get up and leave my heavy book bag planted in my chair to save my seat.. Of course I would notice she's giggling absurdly with her friend, even though she has her nose tucked in a book.
I impatiently tap my cowhide boots on the scuffed up maple flooring, contemplating whether I should stand awkwardly in the middle of the floor or walk over to be a real man. Real man it is then. Taking a deep breath and inhaling all the strength of country brewed coffee, I grudgingly make my way over to that miss's table.
My worn leather boots click noticeably on the sophisticatedly "country" flooring, and the lighting changes from unneededly bright to suspiciously dark as the hanging lights swing with my movements. Though the distance between our tables is small, each step takes decades.
Once I finally reach her table, I place the cup of disappointment on the table, and glare at her jokingly. I study her face for a second and see she's obviously uncomfortable with a stranger next to her table. I can't blame her,as I remember her history of social anxiety I read about. That helps me realize why I've never seen her alone at this cafe. Her friend, Kayle, I assume, is not as shy because she looks at me with a light and amused tone.
She is dressed quite extravagantly, with jewelry and everything. Almost as if she had just gotten back from a job interview.Her confidence was overbearing, and it scared me that I would most likely have to deal with this powerful woman in the future. I can't imagine how she'd behave after I take the life of her friend. Just the fact that such an overbearing person was in a friendship with such a quiet person was a surprise. But as they say, opposites attract.
"I believe this thing belongs to you," I start casually. Ana noticeably sits a little straighter, her raised shoulders indicating that her mood elevated. Definitely eager to be reunited with her beloved tea. After all, who would feel happy after meeting me? She visibly swallows and worked up the courage to reply.
"Is that so? Would you like to take this disgusting excuse for a beverage from me then?" She replies sassily, though with a hint of regret.
I take the liberty to set myself down at her table, and take our two drinks to gleefully switch them. Sure I have my coffee back, but honestly, I'm inwardly freaking out.My conscience is telling me that I know she's going to die and I'm going to be at fault. How the hell am I casually cracking jokes with this girl? It doesn't matter. I've made contact and there's no going back now.
I set my mind to recalling what information I have on her.
First of all, her name is Ana, but she doesn't know that I know such personal information. The look of horror she would have to know how much information such a stranger as I knows is left to my imagination. All of this comes to mind as she introduced herself to me. It's quite interesting how she says her name, gently pronouncing the ah and flowing easily to the end of her name, na. Apparently one of the things I didn't know about her was how to pronounce her name correctly. Oops. The pause before I realize that I'm supposed to contribute to the conversation is far too long, to say the least. My gaze lingers for a second longer, observing the burst of freckles that enveloped her entire face. They reach up until her fricken hairline! I've never seen someone so fricken spotted. Somehow, it's kind of fascinating. Suddenly, her face blossoms in a shade of red that would make any tomato farmer proud. Oh crap, she noticed my scrutinizing gaze. What a great impression I'm making.
Her unique eyes wandered around the shop, patiently waiting for my answer. They were hazel, yet mixed in with some striking greens and blues. She was looking at a curious ensemble of prints and paintings pasted on the walls of the shop. Modern yet predictable, I spotted prints such as Andy Warhol's Campbell Soup print and other bits of pretentious photography. Ana seems so interestested in the art, I don't know if i even want to interrupt her.
"I'm Gwyn, by the way" I cough out awkwardly. Here we go with the awkward small talk. Way to go, Gwyn I'm so proud of myself. This will be such an easy murder. I mean, she seems to totally enjoy my company. While I'm at it, I might as well trip on my shoelaces while trying to kill her. Though right now, I might just settle for accidentally swiping her napkins off the table.
She peers at me peculiarly, surprised by the ring my voice brought as I abruptly spoke, and possibly my expression of sudden self- loathing. Though hopefully she doesn't notice that.
"Oh, that's a nice name," she responded, shifting her weight, looking down in her book for a second. All the while her friend is staring at me like she knows something I don't. I'd say she's creepy; but then, look who's talking. At least this fashionista girl doesn't look like an aspiring psychopath.
"So," I go on, " I'm guessing you like books? I could never really get into them much," oh my God I'm so bad at this. I need to leave now or else I'm going to slam my head into this table. Like I said, I got myself into it, no getting out. Better just grin and go with it.

"Well, actually-" Ana begins and is interrupted immediately by my favorite feminist icon sitting next to her. I could practically smell how much this girl already loathes me. Or maybe her aura of not falling to social standards was confusing my senses. Anyways, she looked like she could read my mind and take down an entire boardroom of men simultaneously. This girl was obviously not another 'housewife'.

"Like books?! Poor girl here only lives and breathes books!" replies the friend who obviously doesn't trust me. With good reason not to, I might add. Ana laughed uncomfortably, she's obviously liking this encounter as much as I am. At least we have something in common.
She blushed slightly and looked down, while reassuringly patting her book.
"Oh... that's cool. I wish I had such a talent. After all, then I might not be struggling so much with this essay." I give a light chuckle at the end, entertained by my own stupid, self- depreciating joke. After all, isn't that what girls are supposed to like now?
I wouldn't think so. Self hate isn't that hot. But then, who am I to set those stupid standards?

I can see by the look on her face after I said it that she wasn't someone who was into that. However that didn't stop her from responding to my comment about the essay.
"Oh, is that the only reason you're talking to me? I can't help everyone I meet with their freaking essays you know!" When she says this I knew I messed up. But hey, we're getting somewhere so I'll take what I can get.
Ana angrily brushed her bangs off of her face, and had an obvious look of a disgruntled cat. Half frustrated and half annoyed, this was not ground I wanted to tread. I wanted to treat her as respectfully as possible. I didn't care if I was killing her or not, my ma taught me better than to disrespect anyone.

"No, I swear, that's not why I'm talking to you!" True story there, but the actual reason is far too complicated," I just thought you seemed nice. Plus the whole fate thing, you know? Switched drinks?" I earn a quizzical glare from that comment and I respond with my own pleading stare. I push my mop of hair back so I can break eye contact smoothly and return to chatting in a reasonably playful manner.

"Come on, this has gotta mean something to you!"
She rolled her eyes at my cheesiness then nodded, obviously uncertain.
"Alright," she replied, " I do see your mountain of books over there," she gestured to my table with a turn of her head, which made her bangs fall into her round face again." So I guess I'm a bit interested in your essay. If you promise me a drink here another time, I'll help you out. I am an English major, after all." Her remark earned her a genuine grin from me. I look down at my tan hand on her table then back up at her, agreeing to her terms.
Now you're talking. This sweetie is finally cutting me some slack. A nice sum of money for murder AND help with this blasted college crap? It could be worse,"