"Goin' Soft"

         George sat in the living room, reading his newspaper, as his girlfriend, Eliza, sat across from him, knitting him a new scarf with an expertise that George felt put his late grandmother to shame. On the TV, Bugs Bunny massaged Elmer Fudd's head with his feet. Eliza's laughter was pure and tinkling. He watched her over his newspaper. Red hair tied back in a bun, sparkling blue eyes, a small and slim figure. She certainly was his type. But it wasn't all about looks; he loved her because of her warmth and compassion. Ironic, he thought, that he was able to notice that in her almost from the beginning...him being a hitman.
         He noticed a wedding announcement in his newspaper. "Nuclear engineer to wed art professor." Two years ago, he would've scoffed, and maybe added, "Well, lah-dee-dah." But Eliza had awakened a softness in himself. She wanted to get married. She told him this many times, often but not always in the vaguest of terms. And he had given it serious thought. He'd come to the conclusion that he should quit his profession, but, whenever he thought of this, he got chills. He feared his employer. What would happen to him? More importantly, what would happen to his girlfriend? And she'd spoken fondly of children and raising children, while he could only dodge the conversation.
         George's cell phone rang. Eliza pouted.
         "I'm sorry, I gotta take this," he said.
         "That's fine, dear," she said, smiling at him before returning her gaze back to the cartoon mayhem. He walked briskly into the kitchen and answered the call.
         "George, my boy," came his boss's gruff voice, "I need you to take care of someone for me. Old man, deaf. It'll be easy. I'll text you the address."
         "W-What's he done?" the hitman stuttered. There was a brief pause.
         "Why you been askin' me that? It don't f***in' matter. Just do it. I think that pretty gal of yours is makin' you soft. You goin' soft on me now, George?"
         "No, sir," he said, his spine tingling at the reference to Eliza, "I'll do it. I'll do it right now."
         "Make sure you do," his boss said, then hung up.
         He went back into the living room. She looked at him expectantly.
         "Got a new client I gotta meet," he told her. George had lied to her from the get-go, telling her he was a private investigator. She never pried. Sometimes he wondered if Eliza really knew the truth. But she couldn't. Not on his watch.
         "Love you, honey," she said, and he knew she truly meant it.
         Once in the garage, he flipped open his cell phone. 506 Granger Avenue. It was in the next town over, probably a three-mile drive at most. He got in his red Grand Am, dented and rusty. His only concern, however, was whether the car actually worked. It did, so it remained dented and rusty.
         George lit a cigarette and pulled out, heading east. He'd promised Eliza that he would quit soon, but, by God, he didn't know how. He felt cigarettes were a pre-requisite that suited his job. He tuned the radio to a classical music station. Chopin was playing. Listening to music had been another escape valve for him. This was mostly his girlfriend's doing; before he'd met her, he'd mostly listened to sports programs. She'd reintroduced him to beauty. She'd reintroduced him to everything.
         With every passing minute, dread and anticipation built up inside of him. What harm could an old deaf man have done to incense his boss? "Business isn't personal," is what his employer had always said, yet half the hits he carried out seemed to be out of the man's petty desire for revenge. He tried to keep his mind a blank, but paranoia, or rather, rightful fear, kept creeping in. Would it really be the end of him if he refused?
         When he arrived, it was quite dark. The house really wasn't much different from all the others on the avenue, white and almost window-less. George looked at the twinkling stars, the bright half-moon. He and Eliza's first date had been out in the fields watching a meteor shower, her idea. He snapped his mind back to the task at hand. He walked slowly and reluctantly up the three steps and tested the doorknob. Open. What a poor fool.
         George stalked inside. It was dead quiet, save for a small squeaking sound. He pulled out his pistol, his hand shaking. Come on, he thought to himself, When this is over, I'm retiring, and Eliza and me are gonna move to Mexico. Just the two of us. I'll blast any thug that gets in our way.
         He walked down the narrow corridor into the living room. Sure enough, there was an old bald man sitting in a rocking chair, reading a newspaper. The flames in the fireplace crackled. He trained his pistol on the back of the old man's head. Do it, he thought, Do it and be done. But as the minutes passed, he knew he couldn't. It just wasn't fair. If his target had been younger and could hear, it would've been infinitely easier. But this man looked, at least from behind, to be close to a natural death. What could the old man have done? Certainly he couldn't have murdered anyone.
         George cocked the gun. Cold sweat was starting to bead on his brow. His shooting hand was anything but steady. He waited for the deaf man to sense him in some way. To realize that something terrible was going to happen to him. Perhaps he'd throw something at George. But he just continued to rock in his chair, nose buried in his newspaper.
         He put the gun back in its holster. No, he thought. Not this time, not ever again. I'm going to marry Eliza. We're going to start a family. He didn't know where, but all that mattered to him was that they loved each other.
         He turned around and started back towards the front door. Then he heard a voice.
         "I knew you was goin' soft, you son of a b**ch."
         George spun around. Standing a few feet in front of him was an ugly old man--no, not old. It was makeup. It was a middle-aged man made up to look elderly. It was his boss.
         Before he could fully process what was going on, his employer shot him in the head. He collapsed sideways, a pool of blood forming around his fractured skull. Then all was silent.