“The Killing Type,” by Maggie Estep
The sun wasn’t thinking about rising yet. Neither was Lincoln, the guy I had come to Cancun with.
I’d really like to take you to Cancun, baby, he’d said two weeks earlier, on our third date.
“What’s funny about that?”
I pictured high-rise resort buildings choking coastline. Portly Americans choking resort buildings. Me choking Lincoln.
“Nothing,” I said.