Ficlets

It was another mission – I sat quietly in the restaurant, waiting for him to make contact.

He was in a disguise, of course, and I didn’t see him until he sat across from me.

“I’m Peter.” He said, dragging from a cigarette. (I knew he hated cigarettes.) (That also wasn’t his name.)

I nodded. “Peter, it’s good to meet you.”

He smiled, and when the waiter came we ordered drinks and desserts. Discreetly – discreetly, mind you, he touched my hand and I felt the paper as well as the heat of his hand at the touch.

We carried on meaningless conversation about art, and when we left he winked at me and went in a different direction.

I held the paper in my hand, and imagined that I could still feel his fingers on my hand.