One Last Glass of Wine
was typing quickly. Ali slowly raised his gun level with the man’s head. He waited for the man to look up and see him standing in the doorway. Ali hated killing a man who didn’t know he was about to be killed. Ali felt it was wrong, even cowardly, to kill a man who was unaware that his death was just seconds away. Even enemies of the nation deserved to see it coming. They deserved to look their killer in the eye and have one last chance to call out to their loved ones or to their God.
Ali waited for the man to notice him and for his eyes to widen in shock or horror, something nearly all of his targets did. This one, though, remained focused on his computer.
Ali considered making an exception and just shooting this target while he typed away in complete ignorance but decided against it. Ali cleared his throat loudly and readied his finger on the trigger. The man didn’t look up, didn’t react at all, and continued typing. This took Ali completely by surprise. Again, he cleared his throat, louder this time.
The man looked up from his computer, clearly surprised to see someone standing there. “Who are you?” he asked, sounding sincerely curious. “Are you with the cleaning–” His words stopped abruptly when his gaze dropped to the gun in Ali’s hand. His eyes widened. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
“I want you to fill that glass,” replied Ali.
The man shook his head slightly. “Glass? What glass? What are you talking about?”
“That one. With the wine.”
The man looked at the glass and then looked back at Ali.
“Fill it up. With wine,” Ali instructed. The man complied. “Now, drink it. Slowly. Savor it.”
The man stared intently at Ali. He then lifted the glass to his lips and began to drink. Little by little, he tilted the glass toward his face and, little by little, the wine disappeared. When the glass was empty, the man slowly set the glass down on the table, all the while keeping his eyes on Ali.
“How was the wine?” Ali asked.
“It… It…was fine. Excellent.”
“What vintage?”
“It’s… It’s a Fourrier Petit Vougeot 2008.”
“Is that your most favorite wine?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’m very happy to hear that,” said Ali. He squeezed the trigger and blood erupted from the forehead of Richard Summers. It was nearly the same color as the last glass of wine he ever drank. He sprawled back in his chair, motionless.