The target

It's your job.
It's your job.
It's your job.

She fixed the scope snug against her eye. Pulled it tight.
And there he was- the target.

It's your job.
It's your job.

She took a deep breath and the wind around her whipped up in a frenzied gust flinging dust and dried, dead things around her frantically.
It caught him too, the wind. It tossed his wavy, sun kissed hair across his forehead. Ruffled his jacket, pushed his trousers taunt against the muscles of his thighs.
She licked her lips. Expelled a deep breath.

A flash of their last night together- two nights before- pierced her concentration. She could still feel the phantom touch of his fingers running up and down her back, across her chest, between her legs.

It's your job.
It's your job.
It's your job.

Her hand tightened on the rifle's hilt. She adjusted the scope, leveled the barrel.
She looked at his face again. The smoothness of his cheek, the WASPy lines of his nose, the cornflower blue of his eyes.
He licked his lips. She bit hers.

Another deep breath in.

The barrel lifted, her finger tightened.

Release.

He fell.
Sun kissed hair slayed around his head flush with the ground beneath him. Bits of his skull, and brain matted the now red locks.

A stinging recoil rippled through her left shoulder and arm. Her nose burned with the pungency of the gunpowder.
She exhaled. The gunpowder still filled her nose. It always did. It stayed with her every time.
As did the face of every hit.

But this time it was different. His face would remain. His eyes, his mouth, his WASPy nose, his hands. He would stay.

Graham.
His name was Graham.
And she would never forget.
But it was her job. He was her job.

And it was done.