She had three cups of coffee that morning, and coffee recently had begun giving her the runs. The fridge roared and the gun inside her head fired, powder burns staining her brain like soot.
The woman, five-seven, dark haired, skin like a farmer, twenty-five, drank from a Brita filter. A smoker, a lover of The Clash, with a picture of a waterfall as her desktop background, took her umbrella from the closet, slipped on a pair of heels, and went outside.
The people outside ran hunched like spies in the sheet-like rain. She went up one street and down another, her pace never rising above a trot. Leon Trotsky, we’ll call her. In the rain, little splashes went up and down her heels, like the traffic of the street.