That awful dog of hers reminded me of Hitler, with his little mustache of dark fur above habitually bared teeth. She could have passed for a Nazi prison guard. It’s true what they say about dog owners resembling their pets. These two had the same cold, hostile stare for me every morning at ten.

The old lady settled into her usual table, facing the door. Her black hat and coat, as last-century as she was, guarded against the draft that blew in with every customer. Dogs weren’t allowed, except for medical reasons. What did this woman suffer, besides hatred for all humanity?

I prepared a triple latte and set it on the counter for the cute guy in a suit that could be Armani, it hung so well.

“Charles,” I called out.

Cell phone glued to his ear, he smiled and left a clean dollar bill in my tip jar. He could’ve stepped from one of those paperbacks about handsome young billionaire sadists.

Not that I had time for romance novels. In sleep-deprived moments I might suffer lurid fantasies about my math tutor, a quiet guy who’d be handsome if he learned to smile. Charles, though. That smile. It just glowed.

Mrs. Klein set up her battered laptop. Karski, a tawny little cattle dog with tall brown ears, sat at her feet. Their matching stares focused on me. PanDoro was self-serve, so she should have come to the counter to order our cheapest brew in her familiar “any mug but white,” but I’d taken pity on her once and now she expected full service daily.

I walked a steaming yellow mug of Dark Roast to her table. She always paid with coins, exact amount, but today she handed me two wrinkled dollar bills. Keep the change--a whopping twelve cents.

Her Nazi stare was fixed on Charles when I came back to refill her mug. “Watch that one,” she said in a dramatic whisper, the kind that makes your hair stand on end even though you’re a sane, rational person who doesn’t hold a grudge against mankind. Her eyes shifted and caught me in a sepulchral stare. A low snarl rose from the dog’s throat, his deranged Hitler eyes firmly fixed on Charles.

“Will that be all, Mrs. Klein?” I said, eyes fixed firmly on her.

She leaned forward. “The devil hides in the most civilized guys.”

Guys? Or guise? Either way, she’d called my favorite hottie a devil. Back off, lady. That devil is mine. Mine, mine, mine.

When her two hours ran out, she shut down her laptop. Karski bolted to attention and watched her ascension from the chair.

I could set my clock by their routine, but I could never be sure of Charles.

A week after the old lady’s “tip,” Charles arrived a few minutes before closing, well dressed even in jeans and a hoodie.

Charles at midnight? What a sweet surprise.

Sipping his latte-to-go, he asked my name, age, major, hometown. Whatever would entice a girl to give up balmy Mount Pleasant for the tundra of northern Iowa? Scholarships, of course. Music.

Walking with him out into the street, it dawned on me that I’d never told him my hometown of Mount Pleasant was in South Carolina, not southern Iowa. Maybe he was good at spotting accents? Most people said mine was barely detectable. Charles, of course, was not most people. He laughed as easily as he smiled, and the way his eyes sparkled set off atrial fibrillations in my heart.

Funny, he looked even more like those sadistic, handsome paperback covers when he pulled that rope from his pocket.

Dawning Realization #2: Charles had talked and walked us into an alley.

“You look like the sorta girl who likes a little fun,” he said. “Am I right, or what?”

“Or what,” I squeaked.

Oof! My head and shoulders hit a brick wall.

"I like your taste in literature," he said. "Shady. Exciting."

How did he know? Stalker.

"You cute little thang," he whispered. "Sing for me, like you did in that musical. You know. Some like it hot."

The tingle in my spine was not an erotic thrill.

"Some like it up against a wall. Like this." His zipper snicked down in the quiet night.

My heart launched into full-blown tachycardia. I tried to scream but the rope tightened around my neck.

A bag of cans and bottles clinked nearby. There was no warning bark--just a Frisbee of fur flying through the night and slamming Charles onto the cobblestones. A whoosh of air blasted from his lungs; his arms rose to cover his face. A terrifying snarl-arl-arl growl drowned out any sound the man under the fangs might make.

The tipper's little dingo had gone Doberman.

"I got you." In her black hat and coat, she blended into the night. "You dirty little bastard." Gripping her cane, she kicked Charles where it would hurt more than a mere dog bite.

Charles thrashed. He flung out an arm, and I gasped. Knife in hand, he just missed Karski's throat.

Mrs. Klein raised her cane. Snick! Out popped a blade. Into his side it went. Charles stopped thrashing. Dark liquid seeped over bricks. Oh, Charles! He'd bleed to death before an ambulance and a fair trial.

"Now they'll find a DNA match for all those girls he left in Dumpsters." Her voice was a mixed brew of bitter and weary.

I felt for the brick wall and sagged against it.

She pulled a cheap phone from her coat pocket. Focusing on me, her eyes held ancient sorrow and weariness as she reported a body in the alley.

"I'll walk you home," said this woman I'd never really seen before, though I'd served her every morning for months. "He's going nowhere, but I'm outta here."

The humanity in her gaze fled like the north wind. She clapped once, sharply. Karski bounded to her side.

That awful dog. He was the sweetest thang I'd ever seen.

# #

Thanks to @rhondak for the formatting you see above. My original formatting below:

In a charity anthology that couldn't have raised much money, considering that it went on perma-free at Amazon, I published my first flash fiction - limit 1000 words max. For me, that is a challenge. It takes far more talent to say something in just a few words than it does to spin out thousands of words of description, dialogue, and formula fiction. (You're free to disagree.)

Kindle Edition $0.00 FREE
3.7 out of 5 stars (126 reviews)
The face of Karski (aka Ted, may he rest in peace, our neighbor's Red Heeler, who ruled 30 acres for 16 years). The death of Ted, and my sister's cold case, inspired this bit of fluff.

Stories on the Go: 101 Very Short Stories by 101 Authors

Micah Ackerman, Caddy Rowland, Monica La Porta, Sam Kates, Lanette Curington, Ela Lond, Livia Harper, Griffin Carmichael, Selina Fenech, Mark Gardner, Ellisa Barr, Marilyn Vix, Jean Louise, Sheryl Fawcett, Nathan Williams, K.D. Hendriks, Wendy C. Allenn (Eelkat), Lindy Moone, Andrew Ashling, David J. Normoyle, Jack Lusted, H.S. Stone, Craig Halloran, Cherise Kelley, George Berger, Jamie Campbell, Amelia Smith, H.S. St.Ours, Melisse Aires, Cora Buhlert, Philip Harris, Emily Martha Sorensen, Raquel Lyon, Samuel Clements, Dulce Rolindeax, Julie Ann Dawson, J.T. Hall, Roz Marshall, Vincent Trigili, J.E. Taylor, Hugh Howey, Samuel Peralta, Daniel R. Marvello, John L. Monk, Hudson Owen, Stella Wilkinson, Susan C. Daffron, Anya Kelly, Rachel Aukes, Anya Allyn, Zelah Meyer, Nicolas Wilson, Jennifer Lewis, Toni Dwiggins, Derek Neville, D.D. Parker, Keith Rowland, Ruth Nestvold, P.D. Singer, Quinn Richardson, Peter J. Michaels, Daniel Wallock, Thea Atkinson, Lisa Grace, Matt Ryan, Vanna Smythe, Geraldine Evans, MeiLin Miranda, Beverly Farr, Sarah L. Carter, Tony Bertauski, Edward M. Grant, Misti Wolanski, Erik Feka, Dee Gabbledon, Becca Price, Arrington Flynn, L.E. Parin, Darrin Perrez, Frank Zubek, Rachel Elizabeth Cole, Matthew W. Grant, Michael Coorlim, Maren Hayes, Tony Held, Allan Körbes, Tiffany Cherney, Landon Porter, Kathy Molyneaux, Drew Avera, SB Jones, Bob Summer, E.A. Linden, Sarra Cannon, Carol Kean, Kristy Tate, Jos van Brussel, John March, Nadia Nader, R.M. Prioleau, Joel Ansel