The Girl on the Bench

Every day I see her, and every day I wonder whether I should strike. She is a mysterious fellow, different than who I usually go for. But my fingers itch to pick those pockets. Pockets with money. One more day, I say to myself.

Memories of our childhood prick tears to the back of my eyes. Memories of how we would play together, of how she betrayed me, of how I was so torn that I slipped into this profession. I can't relive what she has done to me. No revenge can solve it.

I found myself running so hard away from the bench, just away. My boss will be livid for the third day in a row without any merchandise. What has become of me? I slip away and take a breath. Can I do this? Will I do this?

Yes.

I dart out in my huge trench coat, one with pockets and one that is true to my life statement-be hidden, stay hidden.

The sensation starts out at the tip of my fingers, but slowly grows until an unbearable burning is in my whole arm. I grit my teeth.

The target is in sight. I slide my hat over my eyes. I pretend to trip, and as I do my lightning fast fingers do their job.

But I think I've fallen too hard.

She turns around, clearly flustered. My hat has fallen to the ground.

I have failed my mission.

Our eyes lock.

A fraction of a smile comes out from her lips as I shake her hand, saying sorry and whatnot.

"Oh hello, Sam!"

Ada.

I knew I loved her.

I run as hard as my lung capacity can hold oxygen. I just got it.

Mission completed.

But I still feel like I failed. Why?

I just stole from Ada.