They always find me.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my profession. But it’d be nice to have an occasional drink in peace. Disguises don’t help. My skin is brown this time, my eyes grey like my hair. Still, he knows me.
He sits on the next barstool, orders a beer.
I ignore him. Stare at the telly.
“I—” he begins.
“Don’t care,” I say.
“—have a request.”
I sip my Scotch. “Everyone does.”
“You know why I’m here.”
I glance at him. He’s aged. More lines on his face, eyes ringed with shadows that can’t be explained by years.