Invisible
By Debbie Burke
“A hundred bucks says we can walk into that coffee shop and be invisible.” Shirley waved a crisp bill like a fan in the faces of her long-time writing friends, Debra and Betty. The trio strolled down a shade-dappled sidewalk, carrying book bags.
Betty huffed. “Shirley, please stop whining that no one pays attention to older women.”
Shirley planted her hands on her hips. “It’s true and you know it. Once women get past a certain age, no one gives a flying fu—Stop!” she shrieked and grabbed Betty’s arm to prevent her from stepping off the curb.
A Mustang convertible carrying two men in their thirties sped around the corner. Down the block, brakes screeched at a red light.
Shirley pointed at the Mustang. “I rest my case. Those millennial clowns would have run you over and not even noticed.”
Debra said, “People notice me.”
Shirley snorted. “What they notice is that purple streak in your hair.”
“You didn’t put conditions on how we get noticed.” Debra pulled open the glass door to the coffee shop and held it for her friends.
“I tell you," Shirley said, "the day people start calling you ma’am, it’s all over.”
A dude in his twenties pushed past Betty, who had to jump back to avoid a collision. He wore a wool beanie pulled low and carried a take-out tray. Skinny jeans encased his long legs as he strode down the sidewalk.
Shirley called after the guy, “You’re welcome!”
He ignored her.
She shook her head. “Betty, he just plowed through like you weren’t even there. I tell you, we’re invisible.”
Inside, the three women threaded among crowded tables full of chattering patrons. They settled into the only empty booth.
Debra placed her book bag on the table and took out a sheaf of pages. “This place is way too noisy.”
Shirley answered, “Yeah, but they have great pastries. We agreed to try a different restaurant each month for our critique meetings."
Betty peered at the barista on the opposite side of the coffee shop. “Are we supposed to order at the counter?”
“No, the server will come around,” Shirley said. “Eventually.”
The women spread their manuscripts on the table, red pens in hand. For the next ten minutes, they discussed their works in progress.
A server with pigtails passed their table four times without pausing.
Shirley finally said, “Excuse me!”
The waitress ignored her and kept moving.
Shirley splayed her hands. “Not one person has given us a second glance since we came in.”
Debra said, “A hundred bucks say I can get us noticed.”
Betty put her hand on Debra’s arm. “No, you don’t. You’re not pulling up your shirt and flashing everyone.”
Debra wagged her head. “No nudity, no violence. I won’t even raise my voice. But I can prove we’re not invisible.”
“You’re on,” said Shirley.
Betty nodded in agreement but asked, “How?”
Debra smiled and ran her fingers through the purple streak in her silver hair. “You’ll see. But, listen, getting back to my next plot point. . .” She tapped her manuscript with a red pen. “I’ve got to do something about my antagonist, Charlie. He barged into Ramona’s house again last night.”
Betty frowned. “Drunk?”
“Either that or on drugs,” Debra mused. “The reason isn’t important. What matters is his violence is escalating. I really need your advice on what to do with him.”
“You know we’ll help you find a solution,” Betty said. “We’d do anything for you.”
“Anything?” Debra asked.
“Of course!” Shirley winked. “That’s what friends are for. What do you want?”
Debra spoke slowly, deliberately, “I think I need to kill him.” Her gaze turned inwards, plumbing the depths of imagination. “Yes, I definitely need to kill him. But how?”
“Shove him down the stairs,” Shirley suggested. “Break his neck.”
Debra pressed her lips together. “Too iffy. What if he doesn’t die?”
“A gun?” Betty offered.
“Too noisy.” Debra leaned back in her seat. “What about poison? Something untraceable.”
Shirley said, “He’s a big guy, right? Ex-football jock?”
“Yes,” Debra answered. “Two-hundred-seventy-five pounds. Betty, you’re the retired doctor. What kind of poison won’t show up in an autopsy?”
Betty pondered for a second. “An overdose of insulin would kill him. It’s a natural substance in the body. That won’t look suspicious in a toxicology screen.”
Debra asked, “How big a dose do I need to kill him?”
Betty swiped and tapped her phone, searching. “Normal dose is body weight divided by four. Let’s see. At two-seventy-five, it would be almost seventy units. Double that should be enough.”
Debra knocked on the table. “Insulin, it is. That’s how I’ll kill him.”
Even though the coffee shop remained crowded, voices had trailed off. A heavy silence gradually fell over the room.
The three friends looked around.
Every eye focused on them. Stares from customers felt as pointed and sharp as spears.
A few people talked on their phones, hands covering their mouths.
“Uh-oh,” Shirley said. “We’ve been overheard.”
Betty muttered, “We better leave.”
The three women scooped up their manuscript pages and hurried past accusing eyes.
They hustled down the sidewalk and turned into an alley. At the end of the block, they ducked into the Presbyterian church.
Inside the dim, quiet sanctuary, they tried unsuccessfully to stifle giggles.
Betty said, “Scratch that off our list of places to meet for critique.”
Shirley laughed. “At least when we’re plotting a character’s murder.”
Debra held out her palms. “Pay up.”
“What?” Shirley and Betty spoke in unison.
“You each owe me a hundred bucks.” Debra’s grin split her face. “I proved we aren’t invisible.”
Still chuckling, Shirley and Betty fumbled in their bags for money.
The wooden church door silently swung inward. Light spilled through the opening.
A uniformed police officer entered, expression stern, hand on his service weapon. “Ladies, I need to have a word with you.”
-end-
