His Favorite Pocket

The first time I see him, it’s in a grainy photograph, his face beaten bloody. The bruises are purple come the rendezvous, our snug booth surrounded by soldiers drowning wartime woes.

He doesn’t ask if I’m his man. He merely lights my smoke, slips his lighter into my pocket, and vanishes.

The coordinates folded inside the lighter’s casing save hundreds of lives. I burn my informant’s treason, but I keep his lighter.

It’s winter when he leans in for a light.

“Staying warm?” I ask, because I haven’t been able to enjoy a cigarette without remembering the fear in those eyes.

He shivers as he exhales, “Enough,” and I would set the world on fire to keep him warm.

Sometimes, it’s just a moment. Shoulders colliding in crowded streets, his hand slipping into my pocket where it belongs.

Sometimes, I light him up where no one can see.

“Run away with me,” I beg.

The softening of his eyes sharpens the smoke in my lungs. The fear is still there, smoldering. I burn to snuff it out.

“You’re mad,” he whispers.

“I’m yours.”

The final time I’m sent to serve my country, I’m prepared to abandon it. My fingers curl around his lighter, tucked inside his favorite pocket.

Only he isn’t there.

In our booth is a woman. I want to scream. To demand she tell me what they’ve done to him, but I can’t breathe.

The coordinates she passes save hundreds of lives.

At the cost of two.

Author’s Note

This story was originally produced for the NYC Midnight 250-word Microfiction Challenge 2024 finals.

It received an Honorable Mention.