Andrew Grey

The relentless rain hammered against the decaying frame of my 1983 fluorescent-green New Yorker, each drop a percussive reminder of the night's dreary purpose. Inside, the ancient stereo system coughed out a faint, dying melody, its dim light flickering like a forgotten promise.
Loneliness, an old companion, settled in, along with the gnawing exhaustion that comes from too many sleepless nights spent watching.
Just as my eyelids grew heavy, two blinding beams of light cut through the downpour, jerking me awake. My target, Mr. Scott Jones, had finally arrived home. "Shit!" I muttered, scalding coffee sloshing onto my stomach as I startled. He entered his faintly colored sedan quickly, just one shadow disappearing into the house. No female.
My job was clear: infidelity. But tonight, it seemed, was proving uncomplicated, if not utterly uneventful. After a tense wait, I slipped out into the rain, my gaze fixed on his car, a silent hunter in the night.