Chet Baker’s “My Funny Valentine” was playing on the radio. She was chest deep in warm, soapy water, her first bath in what may have been weeks, and still she couldn’t relax. Even though she had taken care of that asshole Jimmy in his shitty little place in Soho and the dried flakes of his blood were washing off her, rehydrating and creating wispy little spirals of red in the water, she was still buzzed with no chance of coming down.
But then, she couldn’t let herself calm down, could she? The second she decided to go on her little shopping spree she went down a path that had to be filled with caution. No booze, no unlocked doors, no friends that she wasn’t 100% sure of, no lack of plan. Even though she was sure that she wasn’t tailed to this crappy little motel she still had to bring her gun in to the bathroom with her, just in case.
No, no sense in a comfortable, relaxing bath when you have to keep assuming that someone is going to burst through the door and end your miserable life. Right when you’re stopping to rest in the middle of your final great work. Not when there were so many hands to be slapped.
Suddenly the sound of wood splintering and clumsy footsteps from the main room breaks the lack of serenity. She smiles and shakes her head as she reaches for the gun, as if she shouldn’t have expected anything different. Chet’s finished on the radio and Nat King Cole’s “Let There Be Love” starts up. As she aims the barrel of the gun at the closed door, waiting for the footsteps to get just a little closer, she feels a knot in her back loosen.