Wednesday.

Never renowned as a drinking night. Tonight this suits you.

You sit at the bar, the drink before you sits half empty. That's how you now see life. Nobody shares your company, but that's has been the norm of late. Tonight this suits you.

You see HER in the far corner. She's laughing and joking with her friends. They aren't genuine friends - habits dictate otherwise. She's just too far down that road to notice. Tonight this suits you.

Your peripheral vision watches HER. She had a name once, but now she is just HER. Just her. Your hand occasionally hoists your drink, a Jack Daniels on the rocks drowned with coke. But you take your time, you know tonight isn't about your normal form of indulgence. Patience, for once, will pay dividends.

She's smiling now, and you can't help but smile too. She always had that infectious quality. She's teasing all and sundry with nothing more than a lolly pop coupled with a smile. You take a gulp of john - your pet name for mr.Daniels, nostrils inflamed. You hear her laugh, her noise is loud and hearty, invoking fond memories past. Instantly she is joined by a cacophony of bitches, each shrill emission more offensive than the last. In happier times you had labeled them 'stupid girls', then asked them to spot the redundant word. Heh! Anyway. Tonight's purpose, if dutch resolve has its way, will bring them pain - preferably in spades. There's a bright side to everything.

You watch, they continue to clap and jeer, chug and kiss. Notes are issued, shots returned. Slowly you gulp john and collect coins. Shapes callings rounds roughly brush past and generate noise. The small arm continues it's circular march, digital watches were developed for the uneducated. You continue to watch HER, your camouflage mere shadow, just another shape at the bar. Your pockets begin to bulge. Tonight this suits you.

Another hour has past. Still you watch. Your confidence has grown, john is culpable - typical. Her seemingly endless stomach for vodka has yet to earn her a bathroom break. You don't want to re-introduce yourself without the privacy of the ladies commode - the scene of the original crime.

Finally. She moves away from her party. Your heart begins to thump. For an instant you recall the doctors advice, then dismiss it - not tonight - not now. She moves past the bar, turning heads, moving off towards ...

The ladies toilet.

One of your last taboos. That's what made it so exciting the first time. The door with the skirt shuts. You follow.

You push the skirt door open and slowly walk in, not as confident as you'd like - knowing you have crossed a threshold, knowing you're on a path. The door purrs closed - you are committed this time. It won't be like the last.

A mirror confronts you. The long pane of glass confirms you are almost alone, only the familiar tinkle of water meeting water gives her away.

You squat down, peering, skimming from cubical to cubical until a familiar pair of stems present themselves. No underwear - some things never change. You consult the mirror again - for support - and get a nod in response. Begin righting the wrong.

Two solid raps on the door start the proceedings.

A drunk but friendly "What girl?" is your reply.

"You're half right!" you hear yourself say.

There's a pause - confusion is brushed aside - she remembers. Good.

"Tony?"

"Been a while"

"no shit hunny"

A swiveling metallic clang echos- red to white, occupied to vacant. The door begins to move away from you, revealing HER. Beautiful as always, her very smell reminds you of how it once was. But that's why you are here.

She smiles at you.

"Its really has been a while..."

At least that's what you think you hear ...

Your first blow strikes here in the shoulder. That fantastic smile crumples. She begins to fall backwards. The cubical door slams against its stop - you force yourself back into her domain.

Your second strike, an instant later, meets her temple. She collapses onto the toilet, her shrill noise for assistance slain before its peek. You can do better than that - strike again, a few more for good luck.

The cubical door slams shut behind you. White to red. Casket closed.

Your weapon is simple. You've watched the media with interest, learned the drawbacks of conventional weapons and the virtues of concealment. Keep it simple. Your weapon, nothing more than a new nike swish sock filled with tonight's change. All virtue, all style, fuck legislation! The best bit? It's working.

She's still. Broken. Haunced over HER cubical. Your heart races, no compassion or condemnation, just adrenaline. Or that's what you tell yourself. You exhale, steadying yourself - the last thing you need is the doc bitching again. Not this close to the end.

Your fingers check for that all important pulse, failing first aid all those years ago hasn't dulled your enthusiasm. You think you feel something, it could just be your imagination, but you can't be sure. Tonight isn't about chance.

The bundled coins and curly perm collide at speed. Again. Because she's worth it. No resistance, no reaction - she'd always faked it good. Force drives her being deeper between the toilet and the wall. No bodily control, a mere rag-doll. You stop. Finished.

You think. You remember. It had been different once.

Things change.