Chocolate

Security detail for a chocolate distributor. How the hell had Paul been so lucky as to land this gig? He spun in his office chair, beside an enormous monitor with nine split screens of silent, gray night-vision entrances, loading docks, and alleyways. He dropped a chocobomb in his coffee and gave it a stir and a sip. Delightful. There were three other chocolate bars on his desk.

Paul leaned back in his chair and found the best desk spot for his feet. If he had to work a night job, at least he could enjoy good eats and comfort. The only thing missing? His tunes. Paul reached for his phone on the desk but paused when movement on a screen caught his eye. It was the security guard from the previous shift leaving for the night. Paul guessed he was in his seventies. Maybe thinking about retirement? 

Something else drew his attention on the right-bottom screen. Just a soccer ball in the alleyway. One of the white hexagons was painted black, throwing off the pattern, like Paul had done to his soccer ball as a kid. Guess he wasn’t as original as he thought.

The ball’s owner came into view, a dark-haired little scamp. He sat on the soccer ball and would probably lean over to tie his shoe… tie his shoe? Why would Paul think that? The kid could be doing anything. But he didn’t do anything. The kid leaned over and tied his shoe.

Paul’s feet slid off the desk when he saw a small dog greet the smiling boy. “Taco?” Paul sat up, staring at the dog on the screen. It looked exactly like the one he had growing up.

The video was from the back door. Paul walked down the fluorescent-lighted hallway, forcing himself not to run. There’d be video of him, too. Better to look like a competent guard checking out an anomaly than a wacko racing for his childhood puppy.

The back door opened with an echoing clank. No one. No ball, no kid, no dog, no way. Had someone spiked his coffee? Paul made a twitchy return to his station. Everything appeared deserted and normal on the gray screens. They stayed that way for one hour and fifty one minutes.

Jubilant Not-Taco appeared in the loading dock, on the top-left screen. Wagging, sniffing, marking. The dog sat and scratched his shoulder, making that face that pulled back his mouth. Taco was always scratching, stupid dog. There was no way to hide it. Paul remembered his tiny hands shuffling Taco’s fur, over the bald patches and red marks. “Mange,” the vet had called it.

Not-Taco pranced out of view, thank God. Paul searched the other screens. He was yawning by the time the soccer ball bounced across the center screen and disappeared. 

What he saw next on the right-center screen made him stand, spilling the contents of his coffee mug. It was a familiar young man with light brown hair. The man bent over, exploding with laughter and wiping joyous tears from his eyes. Paul couldn’t hear anything with the grayscale video, of course, but the booming laugh was clear as sunshine in his mind and warmed his heart. It was his carefree Alex, always quick with a laugh. He was a balm on Paul’s soul. 

He snatched his phone and sent Alex a text. “What are you doing here?” The immediate reply announced that Paul’s phone was out of service. Odd. No matter, he’d greet him at the door. What was Alex doing back from Spain already? Paul had missed him so much. 

As he turned to leave, he noticed Not-Taco in the left-bottom screen, his excitement only interrupted by frequent bouts of scratching. The dark-haired boy entered the alley after him, his feet dragging. There was a pistol in his hand. No. A deep, raspy voice boomed in Paul’s head.

Eleven is old enough to do what you have to do. Shoot the mangy dog before he infects the others. 

But the vet said it was treatable… 

I’m not talking to the goddam vet, am I? I’m talking to my son. Get the gun from the house and shoot the dog. Do what I say and leave your mother out of it or there’ll be hell to pay. 

The boy pointed the shaky gun. Taco sniffed the barrel and returned to scratching. There was no bang. No flash. Just a dead dog and a devastated boy. He exited the video’s view. Paul knew he was returning the pistol without his mother knowing. He’d be back to take the body and dig a shallow grave.

Alex was no longer in the screen’s view. Paul sat down and took great care and attention to unwrap a salted caramel chocolate bar. He mechanically chewed the tasteless chocolate. His eyes avoided the screens. 

Someone was pounding at the entrance door. Paul glanced up at the screens and saw no one. The pounding continued, so he trudged down the hallway to the door. He saw the silhouette of a figure behind smoked glass. 

“We’re closed. Please return during regular business hours.”

“Paul, it’s me, Alex.”

Paul unlocked the door and pushed, but it wouldn’t budge. “Alex, the door, I’m sorry–”

“I know, Paul, I’m sorry, too.”

Paul let go of the door, staring at the shadow behind the glass.

“I met someone, Paul. He doesn’t ask me to pretend. He loves me for who I am—“

“But I love you! I just need a little more time!” Paul banged the glass with his fist and the shadow of Alex’s hand gently pressed against the other side.

“I’ve been waiting to be me my entire life, and I can’t wait any longer. I’m staying in Spain, Paul. I wish you love and acceptance.” The hand and the shadow slipped away. Paul punched the wall and felt nothing but the hole in his chest. He stood there, catching his breath. There was nothing more to say or do, so he returned to the station and flopped into his chair. Red eyes looked up to the screens. There was Alex’s dimpled grin before he winked and walked off-screen. Only, that smile wasn’t for Paul, and off-screen was… was what?

The nine screens went out, becoming silent, snowy static one by one. Paul blinked and slowly opened his eyes. He was outside, lying on the ground. It was cold, or he was numb. There was chocolate sauce all over the pavement. No, not chocolate sauce. He willed himself to move, but couldn’t. Wondered what Spain was like this time of year…