Juan Carlos saw the Greek girl sitting in the window. She was happy and animated. She might have been in love with his best friend, with teh best man he’d ever known.

It didn’t matter.

Once he grabbed the rifle and saw her in the scope she was dead. Juan Carlos was not that love that made her happy. Juan Carlos Boyaratov watched her for a moment through the scope onthe rifle. This image reminded him of her smell years ago.

Of that smell of her after a long night of love, after a long night of love in a cottage on the ocean, the feel of her skin, sweaty, sticky and soft. Luxurious, he thought.

The feel of her breast in his hand as he lay with her. The feel of his body pressed to hers, her heat in that warm night with the ocean slowly churning a few feet away, the smell of the ocean mixed with her’s, the salty taste of her neck as he kissed her, so happy, too happy to not kiss her.

Juan Carlos saw Sophia in the scope, animated and perhaps in love…not with him. It was the only time in his life that he wept because he knew his path and he hated it so much.

Juan Carlos slowly squeezed the trigger.