One

by Peter Anderson

­­          Five minutes.

A businesswoman entered the building. He watched.

Maybe she has a sister. A brother. Someone to talk to.

          Three minutes.

          Bureaucrats say one child so I grow up alone.  Who’ll I talk to if I grow old?

          A newspaper lay next to him on the car seat.  His hand rested on what it covered.

          You listen.  You look out for me.

He took the .38 revolver from under the newspaper.  Its cold steel warmed him.

Time to go.

          He pulled the blue bandana over his face.  His finger on the trigger.

          I’m not alone.

He got out of his car and walked into the bank.

Peter Anderson lives in Ningbo, China, where he teaches economics.  Originally from a Black Angus cattle ranch in South Dakota, he enjoys writing fiction in his free time.