A Change of Life

A Change of Life

by E. W. Shannon

Anne stared at her reflection in the mirror above the bureau. Flat grey Seattle light pierced the windows of her bedroom sitting within the round turret of her Victorian home. A white silk negligee clung to her forty-five-year-old body, still taut thanks to yoga, Pilates, and her newest obsession: veganism. Simultaneously the garment accentuated her assets and hid her flaws, although the latter didn't exist anywhere but her mind, a result of too many fashion magazines.

Here she was again, waiting for yet another man. She'd been with so many men this month. There was a plumber, a doctor, a judge, a sheriff, the man who had her in the basement of a friend's house while a party went on upstairs, the man in that secluded place in the park, and the man who thought a nice dinner out warranted intercourse in the back seat of an entry-level Mercedes. For a woman who, as of late, had been a perpetual vessel for masculinity, Anne couldn't remember feeling so empty. If just one of those men had offered her a cup of coffee and asked how her day was. Hell, if only one of those orgasms had been real.

She heard the alarm system chime, alerting her somebody had just entered the house. Anne knew who it was. An unarmed Russian spy with barely any training in seduction or espionage. Enough was enough, today would be her last encounter with this man. Calmly, she opened the top-right drawer, lifted a stack of sensible cotton underwear, and pulled out her nine-millimeter. The spy's weight made the first step creak. She crept out into the hall and waited with her back pressed against the door of the linen closet. Another creak. The spy had reached the loose fifth step her husband kept forgetting to repair.

The default ringtone of an iPhone stabbed the silence of the house. Anne gripped the gun tightly against her abdomen with her right hand as her left hand covered her mouth to make sure a scream of fright didn't escape. The ringing stopped, and she could hear angry whispering, "Damn it." The spy answered the phone, "What?"

She bit the inside of her cheek hard to make sure laughter didn't erupt out of her. Bad enough the spy had his phone on while creeping about, but the absurdity of him answering made her go into hysterics.

He whispered, "No, I don't want to extend my car's warranty. Goodbye."

The spy continued his ascent. Finally, Anne heard the noise she'd been waiting for: a creek and a slight pop of shifting wood, the distinct sound of weight settling on the fourteenth step. She moved out in front of him at the top of the stairs. Years of gun training from the time she turned twelve took over and she pulled the slide back on the top of the gun, depositing a hollow-point bullet into the chamber.

The spy's hazel eyes lit up and, even under his knit stocking mask, she could see his cheeks rise as he smiled. "Damn baby, you look hot."

The entire month every man had opened with the exact same line. Now he would wrestle her to the ground, and they would have sex while he asked, "Is this okay?" It wasn't okay. It was boring. It was repetitive. It was middle-aged. It was walking along a perpetual cliff edge where in one direction she could see the joy of her youth and in the other the deep pit of geriatrics where excitement equated to a two-for-one coupon. She needed a change. So, she pulled the trigger.

The bullet pierced the spy's black turtleneck. On impact with the sternum, the hollow-point opened like a little spinning jagged edged daisy. As it continued its trajectory it sliced opened the right side of the heart and nicked the spine, where it veered to the left, exited the spy, and lodged in the vintage floral wallpaper.

The force of the impact threw him backwards, while the sudden loss of blood pressure made his legs crumple beneath him. He rolled down the stairs, leaving drops of blood on the walls and carpet. His body resembled a swastika when he finally came to rest on the inlaid wood floor in the foyer.

Anne froze, shocked by what she had done. After a few breaths, a sense of calm came over her. She thought about that night, a month ago, when she inadvertently said, "I'm tired of my life," into the darkness. Her husband, like most men, assumed his penis could somehow help her state of boredom, and so the month of sexual roleplay and adventure began. She walked downstairs to call the police, figure out a plausible story, and practice looking shocked for when the police removed his mask and they all realized she had accidentally shot her husband.

Once downstairs, Anne looked into her husband's lifeless eyes and said, "Guess I wasn't tired of my life, I was tired of ours."