Acting on an Idiom

The Daily Brailey
Oct 10 · 3 min read

She stood outside looking in on the window of an apartment on the second story of a brownstone.

It was just after 8 p.m., so whoever it was inside wouldn’t have been able to see her since they had their kitchen light on. They were about to cork a bottle of red. From where she was, she couldn’t make out if it were a Pinot, Merlot, Malbec, or what. She’d had a long week so it really didn’t matter.

In her pocket was a Swiss Army Knife. She was sure she’d seen it used as a murder weapon in movies, but looking down at it now wasn’t completely confident it would do the job. Luckily, she’d brought along masking tape and a plastic bag as back up.

Getting the plastic bag was no easy-feat. She’d hit up four different bodegas and may as well have asked them to help her kill somebody with it based on the looks they gave her. Eventually, one owner reluctantly agreed when she offered to give him a dollar. Make no mistake, she was pro-planet and anti-plastic, but when it came to suffocation, tote bags were not sustainable. In the environmentally conscious times we’re living in, it probably would’ve been a hell of a lot easier to have just gotten a gun.

She made her way up the stairwell of the brownstone and knocked at the door. An old man in a bathrobe answered without hesitation. “Can I help you?” Boomshakalaka! She was in and with Swiss Knife pointed at his torso forced him to the couch.

“Where is the wine?” she shouted.

In a state of panic the man began to cry, “I don’t have any wine. Who are you?”

She drew the Swiss Knife to his throat. “Liar! I know it’s in here, I saw you cork the fucking thing from the window. Where is it?” She scanned the dining table, the kitchen and the bedroom, but no wine was anywhere to be seen. “Tell me you didn’t down the whole bottle before I could even get up here?” she asked, returning the knife to his throat.

“I swear to God, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have any wine, I swear it,” he cried. “I’m a recovering alcoholic. I’ve been sober four years!” She held the man down, shoving the plastic bag over his head and scratched around in an attempt to find the end of the masking tape, but her bitten fingernails were of no use.

“They need to come up with a better way to know where the end of the tape is,” she blurted out. “Do you have blue tac?”

Thirty some minutes later, the plastic bag was somewhat tied around his neck using a double knot. It seemed to work. He began breathing heavily into the bag.

“I won’t ask you again,” she threatened. “Tell me where the wine is, old man!” Suddenly, she paused. “Wait. Your kitchen window doesn’t face the street.”

The man was so short of breath he could barely speak. “No, it faces the park.”

She looked around again. “Shit! I’m in the wrong apartment.”

He tore a hole in the plastic bag and gasped for air. My neighbours window faces the park.”

The woman ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. “I’m so, so sorry,” she said. “Hey, you don’t have another plastic bag, do you?” Based on the look he gave her, she may as well have asked him to help her kill his neighbour.

By the time she got back to the car, it was almost midnight. Her clothes were all bloody and she had half a bottle of red wine. “It’s a Malbec.”

“Jesus!” I said, shaking my head. “You really could kill for a wine.”

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