In every scene of her grief, we wished it weren’t true. The red-headed quarry carried herself treacherously, possessive of a large bag, hiding a knife in her shoe. We knew he should let her go. In what door would she engage? Anxiety sideways in the backs of our throats, a tool disabled. He was careful to look both ways before crossing the street, cars oblivious, a stranger following him, we think. Friend or foe? Or was it coincidence? He was thinking of her, of course, his girlfriend, his brown-eyed earnestness too focused on the Jackfruit of her eyes when he’d surprise her with the decoding, unaware of the danger. The redhead turned into an alley. Alleyways were never a good decision. Another corner separated her from our view. He followed. The stranger’s stricken urgency was too late, despite the gallop into view. We saw with his horrified eyes the boyfriend severed from the chase, flat out on the cobblestones, blood pooling from a knife wound at his trachea, as palatinate as beet juice. She will dream away the staining of her fingertips after she receives the call.