Mr. Big

“So I’ve been reading about this

           police sting operation that’s legal

                      in Canada and Australia, but not here. The ... criminal  ?”

                      “The perp !” B corrects me and takes

                                a sip of  her macchiato.

“Yes! Ha! Perp ! So the perp

           brutally murdered his girlfriend and the cops

                      couldn’t pin it on him so they

                                sent in an undercover man who looked like a real

                                                                                 big-shot mafioso type ... ”

                                             “Mmhm. Mr. Big,” B nods.

“Exactly. So Mr. Big gives the perp

           a lot of important things to do, run money,

                      deliver packages, drive him around,

                                and all the while Mr. Big’s telling the perp

                                          I can’t run things without you blah blah blah ... ”

                                                                    “Mmhm. Heh.”

“Then he says to the perp, We’re taking this business

                                wrong ... I mean ... ”

                                                              “Idiot.”

“Can you imagine someone showing up

           all of the sudden out of nowhere and saying,

                      You’re just the guy we’ve been looking for!

                                                                     And you believe them?!”

                                                     “No, I cannot,” B snorts, and I snort.

“Hi,” I yip too quickly at a woman walking by

           our bench. It’s rare—foot traffic at the end

                      of this long, dark, deserted hall where we’ve chosen

                                       to chat because we’re hiding from everyone who

                                               has, could, and will turn on us.