A New Direction

In some ways, I find myself more prone to creativity when I'm about to go to bed.  Like.  Dali.  Yeah.

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"Roger Sanderson's the name," the gentleman smiled, his forehead and cheeks wrinkling.  "I sell dreams, wishes, and desires, m'ladies."  His reflection in the mirror continued grinning.

Sanderson frowned, and the wrinkles straightened out.  He sighed and ran knobby fingers through a wave of salt-and-pepper hair.  He was no longer the James Bond of his younger days, and he was never sure if his charm made up for the lack of youth.  Impressing the ladies was not exactly key to success in this last job, but everything helped.  And at his age, Sanderson needed the extra help.

He wanted out.  He was 52, his bones were protesting, and his joints disliked getting up in the morning.  But a favor owed to a friend was a favor owed, and Sanderson was not going to get his vacation until he had paid out all his favors, this last one to a particularly wealthy friend with a hefty reward hanging in the balance.

The old detective rubbed the bridge of his nose and climbed into bed.  Tomorrow that wealthy friend would be sending a contact at the drop-off with the necessary documents.  And after the delivery in two days, Sanderson would be free to cash in the dated check and jump on the next plane to Tahiti.  Or the Ivory Coast.  Or New Zealand.  Anywhere hidden from his growing list of enemies.  He even had his new name chosen.  Bellasseau.  Nichol Bellasseau.  It flowed on the tongue.  Sanderson was particularly proud, that after having spent thirty-some years choosing names off a baby name website, he'd finally come up with his own.  It was unique, special, not bland like Roger Sanderson, or Jason Hapleigh, or Kevin O'Conall, and so on.  Too many names to remember.  He hardly remembered his real name anymore.  Whoever he was at present was who he was.

Sanderson flipped the switch and soft moonlight replaced the bright fluorescent bulb.  He could worry about the plausibility of passing himself as an elderly French photography-addicted tourist in a few days.  For now, sleep beckoned the old man in a quiet manner as Death himself might do several years hence.

357 words