Delivery 2

I was hanging out my window, smoking a ciggie that my GP would have been upset to see. There were two of them. They had the props, the van that blended into the background, the ever-present clipboard and the face caps pulled low over their heads. He was taller, not quite the muscleman type. She was smaller, trying for petite, but she hadn’t quite figured out what to do with her shoulders. She looked like the more dangerous of the two. Though those set shoulders were a giveaway, that and the matching trackies.

Masquerading as a couple, are we?
What kind of couple wore matching trackies as part of their side gig? It certainly wasn’t spelling professional delivery service, which meant they had to be a different kind of professional.
Or was I overthinking it?

I let them into the building of course. I’m that kind of neighbourly person. There was a moment when he pulled out the electronic signature just as they got to my door, I thought maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was definitely overthinking this. Then the scanner in my flat beeped.

Yes! The game was on.

I opened my door in curlers and a dressing gown. No one said I couldn’t play along, did they?

I caught her scanning the corridor with a surreptitious sweep. She was good. Definitely the one to watch out for.

“Yes, I’ll accept the delivery. Please come in, I need to find my glasses’.

They stepped in.

I didn’t even need my gun. Who knew retirement could be such fun.