Secret Agent Girl

Melissa gazes down at the hot rock, strangling
her finger, glistening- an assignation she
accepted, not guessing what her daily rounds
might be. Secret Agent Girl, she calls herself,
standing in line at Starbucks, gunning for the other
lone gunman in the place, hunched over an obscure
book (is he faking?), needing to take a look at a woman,
desperately lonely beneath the shenanigans of a purple
flowing skirt, tight white blouse, & an avowal of
happy marriage- she looks desperately lonely. Out
on Ridge Pike, she's being discussed sideways
in a squad car disguised as station wagon-

time is running out, they suggest. Melissa has
not come through for them several times in a row,
through (they suggest) the sheer laziness of
thinking she deserves more than she does. This
guy is her brother, this should be an easy one for
her. Yet, Mr. Gunman seeks to retain his sangfroid.
She's got her latte now; no one in the place seemed
to divine her mission; she goes home to expect her
husband home later, who doesn't exist. She'll waste
an hour jerking off to whatever's around, as if her
body might respond. If it won't, she'll know why.