Blue Glass and Emerald Eyes
It was the kind of August morning that couldn't help but inspire a feeling of optimism in Michael Denton. It had rained, and he noticed the sky was that particular shade of blue, and the sun at that precise angle, so it glazed the sidewalk in amber and set the flecks of mica ablaze. He appreciated how it filtered through the leaves of the city-beautification trees lining the sidewalk, refracting through the last vestiges of the morning's rainstorm and dappling his short, brown hair with gold.
It was still cool, and breezy. It wasn't yet 9 AM, and despite the pleasing morning sun, Michael was glad he had remembered to wear a coat. His Cole Haan khaki trench coat flapped behind him, nondescript but exuding, in his mind, a casual but successful air. It was Saturday, and at this hour relatively few people jostled along the sidewalks, and traffic was at an ebb, reminding him that even Chicago can be somewhat calm if one gets up early enough. At the corner of Madison and Clark he bought a copy of the Tribune and, to clear any remaining fog of sleep, he stepped into one of Downtown's ubiquitous Starbucks.
Savoring his rich, smooth grande mocha latte, he browsed through the headlines in a perfunctory way. "Wheaton Apartment Fire Claims 4 Lives." A shooting in Evanston. "Walk for Polio Inspires Hope." Something about Iraq. Further evidence that the news never contains anything of interest. He flipped to the Business section, paying particular attention to the stock reports. His investments had continued to improve, one stock by four cents, another by eight. Satisfied, he set down the paper and saw the love of his life.
He thought his heart had stopped before he realized that it wasn't her, couldn't be her. But this woman it was uncanny. Peering surreptitiously over his now trembling cup of coffee, he watched her. Her skin was that same tone, darker than his, almost a light olive, but her eyes were darker than Victoria's. She had always had the most arresting way of looking at him, with those green eyes. "Not green, emerald," he'd always teased, as they splashed their feet in her family's pond, rippling its surface like a blue mirror of the sky; she'd hated him making a big deal of her looks, but of course he did anyway. And she'd preferred he call her Vicky, but he assured her that was no name for the sophisticated, elegant lady she truly was. He knew she secretly enjoyed it, even if it did get him shoved into the pond at her family's cabin; that sheet of pure blue glass suddenly shattered, spiderwebbing with beads of sun as he plunged gracelessly through, still laughing.
He was jarred from his reverie by the harsh, nasal tones of cell phone rendition of Beyonce's "Check On It," spilling coffee on his Armani silk tie. "Damn it," he muttered, blotting ineffectually at the dark, spreading stain with a napkin. Giving up and returning his attention to this apparition from his past, he realized how little she actually resembled Victoria. This woman was now talking loudly and animatedly on her cell, the source of the offending melody. Michael wondered how he ever could have compared her to Victoria; she would never have prattled on in such a flouncy, silly way. Folding his paper and discarding it and the empty cup, he rose and made his way back onto the street.
His spirits only slightly dampened by his new coffee stain, he stepped back onto the sidewalk. He strolled briskly along the sidewalk, invigorated by his daily dose of caffeine. The sun had risen closer to its zenith and his shadow now slanted at a more acute angle. The morning's cool breeze had flagged as well, so he shed his trench coat and draped it over his shoulder. The traffic on the sidewalks and in the street had increased during his lengthy reminiscence, and he jostled along through the throng of life which was his more customary conception of Chicago. Having lived there for three years, he was accustomed to rhythms of the city, the tides of cars and people that ebbed and flowed in the streets. Again he was reminded of a school of salmon, blithely swimming, without really knowing why, toward some unseen goal upstream.
He had planned to proceed directly to the Art Institute and take in some culture - he did so more out of the desire to appear urbane and witty at parties than out of genuine interest - but decided to first return home for a change of clothes. He walked the few blocks to his apartment at the Parliament Enterprises Ltd. Building, and stopped in the lobby to check his mail. Crossing the polished marble floor to the bank of mailboxes, he automatically found box 12E and entered the combination. Strangely, nestled among the customary white security envelopes and junk mail was a pink, padded envelope. Grabbing the whole sheaf, he swung shut the box and turned to cross the lobby to the bronze elevators. He hadn't been expecting a package, but supposed it was nothing unusual. Probably another free razor, sent to lure him into buying cartons of overpriced shaving cartridges. Looking up, he jabbed the button marked "12." While he waited for the elevator's unhurried descent, he turned his attention back to the package.
Its first unique trait was also its most obvious: it was bright pink. He had received innumerable packages over the course of his career and private life, but never one so simply and noticeably pink. Its upper left corner was plastered with stamps, as though the sender considered its delivery to be of the utmost importance, and not to be risked by supplying merely twice the required postage. It was weighty, and lopsided, surprisingly hefty for such a small parcel and contained something with approximately the dimensions of a small hardcover book.
The elevator arrived at the lobby floor with a well-mannered "ding." Without looking up from his mystery package, he stepped through its doors, nearly colliding with an elderly couple.
He was so engrossed as the doors slid shut, he didn't see the nondescript gray BMW pull up to the curb, or the nondescript men in suits step out.
Michael didn't notice the most peculiar thing of all about the package until he was inside the elevator's enclosed space. It smelled overpoweringly of perfume - and something else, but all he could think of was the perfume. He knew the scent, had smelled it before - a scent like lavender, and jasmine, tall grass under a summer sun.
Victoria. It was the summer before their junior year of college, and they thought they had it all figured out. They were in love, and that was all they needed to know. Time has little meaning when you spend it in a sea of golden grass, or suspended, swimming in a flawless mirror of the sky above. He crashed through that mirror, laughing, and she followed. When he emerged, he found his face inches from hers, her "emerald" eyes, and her "rich mahogany" hair floating around her in a fan. Their eyes met, then their lips, and soon they were swimming to the shore. They laid together in the tall, warm grass and were sure that no two people had ever loved so fully, or so deeply. At that moment, time was insubstantial - they were infinite.
That was before they'd realized love was not invincible, and no matter how hard one tried, it really didn't conquer all. Eventually time will catch up to everyone, and exact its price. Vicky graduated with a Bachelors degree in Special Education. He was interested in a career with more earning potential, but she had never been about money. Things fell apart, as most do, and they went their separate ways. Michael moved on to bigger prospects - ones that entailed terms like "confidential," nondescript gray Beamers, and trips overseas.
Michael worked as a government agent in espionage, specifically dealing with illegal drug trafficking. During his twenty years of experience he worked his way up the ladder, acquiring an extremely exacting way of life, a keen sense of logic and common sense, and a weariness with life that eventually caused him to step down from his position. He resigned his post and managed, by virtue of his general acumen and leadership, to land a desk job in the public sphere in a Chicago media corporation: a cushy executive position, which funded his somewhat extravagant tastes while requiring little of him. But sometimes he still wished he knew what could have been; there had been others after Victoria, but never equals.
The elevator hummed to a stop at the 12th floor, and his stomach gave a slight flutter as it attempted to continue its ascent without him. Awakening from his reminiscence, he stepped through the bronze doors, automatically carried to his apartment by his Cole Haan Italian leather slip-ons. He produced his keys from the inner pocket of his trench coat, and proceeded inside. He was greeted by the view from the several large bay windows overlooking downtown Chicago. His spacious and sunlit apartment was as he had left it this morning: lived-in but well-furnished. And extravagantly priced; prime real estate in the heart of Chicago seemed to take the idiom, "an arm and a leg" almost literally. Fortunately, his government-fed pension and desk job were more than adequate to support his privileged lifestyle, and it wasn't as if he broke his back to make a living; compared with the rigors and administrative responsibilities required of him as he ascended the ranks of his previous field, his new job felt like a vacation. He dropped his trench coat over one of the high-backed chairs at his counter, and lifted the package, preparing to open it.
It was then that he identified the other smell he had detected, subconsciously, upon entering the elevator. How could he have gone so soft? He had become so enthralled in indulging in reminiscences that he had overlooked what should have been an obvious threat: A faint but sharp chemical odor, all but masked by the overpowering scent of perfume. All at once he knew the contents of the package. One more thing he acquired as a mole in underground drug trafficking was a disconcerting number of people who would prefer him deceased. Had he actually torn along the perforated edge of the envelope, severing the thin foil strip (and thus the minute electrochemical current to the hard, book-like object at the bottom of the parcel), he would have been killed by an explosion. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to leave a significantly truncated Michael Denton standing in a cloud of meat confetti.
Immediately he broke into a cold sweat, his palms moistening the envelope. A dizzying wave of fear washed over him, and his stomach clenched like a fist. Gingerly, he set the envelope on the counter. He knew it wouldn't detonate unless he opened it, so he was safe from that grisly fate. However, he also knew that whoever sent this knew where he lived, and if they were smart, they would have some form of insurance in the event that their initial ploy failed. He had been afraid of this, dreaded it even, for the first couple years after his resignation, and had ever been on the lookout for suspicious people or packages. However, over time he grew complacent, inattentive. Again, he thought of Victoria, and that, maybe had he chosen her over his goddamn profession, he wouldn't be in this mess: Standing alone, in his expensive, luxury apartment, surrounded by attractive, modern furniture, in his designer clothes, with a bomb on his kitchen counter. He had walked straight into this. Even now, precious moments were ticking away until the "insurance" of whichever disgruntled crime lord had sent this package would be coming to tie up the loose ends. He paced anxiously to peer out of his bay windows. He needed to think quickly, to act. He needed his gun. He took three hurried steps toward his bedroom, where he kept his own form of insurance-
It was at that moment the door flew violently open, the wood housing its lock bursting in a shower of splinters. Michael wheeled about in alarm to see three men in gray Armani suits step into the apartment, exuding an air of cold inexorability. Before he could cry out in alarm, each leveled a revolver at him and opened fire. Time had caught up with Michael Denton. He lurched backward with a grunt as each bullet struck him with a searing thud, and the large bay window behind him exploded outward in a glittering cascade. As he plunged through space amidst a rain of glass, his final vision was of emerald eyes amidst a mirror of blue, rushing to meet him.