New York Hotel [Untitled]

    It’s one of those quiet Sunday mornings when the sun just happens to always be shining in your eyes. I sit in a chair in the middle of a New York hotel room. Exhausted, I pretty much just fell down into it the night before. I haven’t slept in five days. My dirty, ruffled white oxford hasn’t been washed since I left the office on Tuesday. My tie’s still on. It’s loose, but I forgot to take it off. I look around, dazed.
    Deep velvet carpet and crimson bed sheets contrast the blue-painted walls. Photographs hang in golden frames and a wooden coffee table sits in front of the couch. The sliding glass door leading to the balcony on the north-side of the 15th floor is open. The breeze makes the wind-chimes sing in the outer doorway. I glace at them for a second, then return my eyes down and stare into space. Thinking. Remembering.
    She was an angel. Beautiful. Could’ve had the world if she wanted to. But she was too humble. Too shy. Didn’t know what she wanted. Not ‘til we met at the coffee joint down on 56th. She was just sitting there, reading that day’s paper, when I walked by. I made myself ask her name and her number. Forced myself. She was nice enough to even give it to me, let alone answer my calls. And go to dinner. Months flew by like they were seconds. We were in heaven. I knew we were meant for each other.
    I still can’t force myself to believe that she’s gone. They said that the guy wanted her car. I don’t know why. It was an Acura. In a city of BMWs and Mercedes who would even think about stealing an Acura. When she resisted he shot her in the chest. She was gone by the time I could get there. The witnesses say her last words were, “I love you, baby.”
    The funeral service starts in a couple of hours. I still haven’t even showered. Haven’t even laid out what I was going to wear. Haven’t thought about it. Didn’t plan on going. Can’t stop thinking about her. About her face. Her eyes. Her lips. Her smile. Everything about her. It’s gone. Gone forever.
    I lift the .45, point it to the ceiling and rest my elbow on the arm rest. Slide out the magazine and slip in the one hollow-point from my pocket. I jam the clip back in the handle and bring the slide back, bringing my freedom to the chamber. I reach into my back pocket and pull out my wallet. I flip to her picture. Her beautiful picture. Golden hair hanging down almost in front of her face. I push the barrel into the bottom of my jaw and close my eyes.
    I love you, baby.