Fatima, the sultry assassin
Her mother was an Israeli Arab, purportedly an agent for Mossad. Her father was a Turkish arms dealer. Fatima told me that she didn’t know what she was, but that the gun came natural. For a human killing machine, she was remarkably vulnerable. Many of our conversations ended in meltdowns, cracked champagne flutes and modern art paintings destroyed by gunshots.
We used to joke about how clichéd our relationship was, the whole assassin falling in love with her target thing felt so contrived, but it gave our relationship a sense of immediacy. It was like, we must be in love; otherwise I’d be dead.
For 2 months, we traveled around Europe in a sleek, black Citroen, before settling down in Hungary. We didn’t have any plans, but we both knew we wanted a home together.
In the end, she left without saying a word. I came back to our flat in Pest and all her stuff had been cleared out. Four minutes later, while I was down at the grocer, buying something to numb the pain, I heard our building explode into a giant ball of flame, destroying all of my worldly possessions, save for one bottle of scotch.
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