Smile

A short story from a photograph

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The rain left a sheen on the cracked pavement. Eddie leaned against the wall, smoke hanging from his lip, eyes on the mouth of the alley. He hated this kind of watch. Too quiet.

Somewhere behind him, through a warped metal door, the meeting was happening. He didn’t ask details. He was told, ten minutes, keep it clear. That was fifteen ago.

A cat skittered across, knocking a loose can. Eddie twitched, cursed under his breath. The neon bar sign at the far end hummed and died for a second, then flickered back. A couple passed on the sidewalk beyond, laughing, too drunk to notice him. Fine.

Then she showed.

Not a cop walk, not a street girl. Just a woman in a white jacket, standing in the glow like she’d stepped out of a TV frame. Eddie felt her eyes cut down the alley, right at him. She didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just watched.

He spat the smoke out. “You lost, lady?”

No answer. She shifted her weight, looked like she might keep going, but didn’t.

Inside, muffled voices rose and fell. A chair scraped. Eddie’s neck prickled. If she stayed, the whole setup was blown. He stepped forward a little, just enough into the light.

“You don’t wanna hang here.”

She tilted her head. A phone came out of her pocket. She held it up. Not filming—pointed low, like she was checking a message. But Eddie’s gut twisted.

That was when the door behind him cracked open.

A voice hissed, “Everything good?”

Eddie didn’t turn. “Yeah. Go.”

The door shut again.

The woman lifted the phone higher. Eddie wasn’t guarding anymore. He was exposed.