A Short Story : A Story?

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lot of exposure. Two gringos in a crowded town square, punching out a local, plenty of unsavory types witnessing it, word would spread like a flash fire.
He dropped the car off with Father Carlos, forcing a bunch of money on him for gas and his trouble, and they walked back to their apartment. Sherry was trembling. He asked, “Can I hold your hand?”
She said nothing but let him.
At the apartment she lay on the couch, and he carefully joined her there. As he stroked her hair, her trembling slowed. He had no reprimands for her. Granted, she’d done something stupid, but hadn’t he done stupid things his entire life? How else could you describe living as a hitman? And had what she’d done been so stupid really? Trying to leave a totally screwed-up situation to get back to a normal life?
“I thought for sure that guy was going to kill me, Paul. I could feel it,” she finally said. “He didn’t seem that bad—he smiled when he stopped to give me the ride—but as we drove he started groping me already. I think he took me to the town square to show me off, but I could see in his eyes he was going to kill me.”
“You’re okay now, Sherry. You’re safe.” Without even thinking what he was doing, he kissed her lightly on the lips.


They ate the casserole the kindly neighbor had left and spent the rest of the night in a guarded silence. When it was time to sleep, Sherry took Paul’s hand and led him to the bedroom with her.
There was no question of making love. He still wasn’t sure how she

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