Fiction
MasksDan Fiore
Someone screams.
Jay turns, following his wife’s eyes behind him to the front door across the diner.
Three men in wet ski masks and camo hunting gear stand holding guns, their barrels dripping rain. “Phones, wallets, whatever,” the man in the orange mask says. “Put all that s**t on the table.”
Turning back to his wife, Jay raises his hands, fingers spread just above the table, and looks in his wife’s eyes. “Syl,” he says, his voice a pointed whisper. “Syl.”
Her eyes float slowly from the gunmen to her husband. Tears sit locked and quivering between her lashes. Jay says, “It’s gonna be alright.” He places a hand over hers. He nods.
Syl blinks and a single tear falls. Removing her hand from under his, she wipes her cheek with her sleeve.
Jay unlatches the watch
