Light and Sweet

Light and sweet. Same shit every time. We hit the front of the line. I yell out black. And Terry behind me. A whisper. Light and sweet. Always sounds funny coming from the guy with the shaved head, king-size frame and serpent tats covering every ounce of visible skin.

But that’s Terry.

We all hide secrets, I guess.

We’ve been doing doubles on the bridge for two weeks straight. Doubles in a New Jersey subzero winter. Three breaks over fourteen hours usually spent at O’Hara’s two blocks away.

Terry flirting with the redhead waitress, while I stare out the window. Skyline always seems pretty from the other side. Like a whole lotta beauty when you’re not dug up inside it.

Guinness, Harp, Bushmills and whispered plans. The type of plans guys like us make when the night comes too early and there’s hardly anyone left to keep us honest.

I don’t have anyone anymore.

Maddie’s long gone.

A cliche to say she left like the wind. But that day I walked home, opened the door, wiped muddy boots on Home Sweet Home false promises—that day I saw it all. Shit scattered all over the floor—my clothes, some of the kids’ old toys, ripped pieces of paper. Paper that could be put together to show every lie. Every threat. It was all there, just torn like what was left of my beating heart.

So there’s a guy we’re supposed to meet. Uptown. Way up. A quick handoff. Easy money. Middlemen is the way Terry puts it. Like it would make what we are about to do any better.

Terry and I head up at quitting time. The stars still twinkling up somewhere, not far from the heavens, as the city bleeds yellow and red, reflected in the glass of skyscrapers.

I used to take Maddie here. Our childless weekends we’d call them. Marriott Marquis. Surf and turf with views to die for. A Broadway show. Waitresses serenading us at that silly diner. Sunday night we’d fall asleep, Maddie’s long legs wrapped around mine on those hard train seats. When we’d finally get home, it was like we awoke from a beautiful dream.

Then reality hit hard.

An alleyway. Never the place you want to be, but I’ve given up on my own wants by now.

Hard dude pops out of a shadow. Linebacker build, beady eyes, thick gold around his neck.

Two more behind him, dark clothes, brawny bodies.

“You got the money,” one of them says.

I reach down to my pocket but Terry stops me. Walks up to the first guy. Shoulder to shoulder now, almost touching.

“How ‘bout you gimme the shit first.”

Dude just laughs. A nasty laugh. Same kind I’ve heard before in barrooms and taverns. Usually before shit goes down.

The two behind him still as scarecrows. I reach down again but Terry just raises his hand like he’s getting the barmaid’s attention. Not now.

The laughing dude pulls out something hard and metal. Raises it up like a pitchfork. Then fires. Two shots in the air. Warning.

My stomach clenches. The Stout and Lager now rising up in my throat like it’s ready to pour back out.

Terry don’t even flinch. Pulls his own.

Three shots.

They drop.

Hard.

I can’t help thinking of Maddie. The kids. Still in the old house. Swimming pool. Tennis lessons. Game nights.

Maddie’s new friend.

Terry just takes the stuff from the guy’s coat pocket. Like he’s picking litter up off the street.

Then nods at me and walks off.

Three more hours ‘til we’re back on the clock.

Light and sweet.

Same shit every time.

BIO: Jesse Binger is a fiction writer from New Jersey. His debut novel The Penitent Hours is currently on submission. His work appears in or is forthcoming at Rock and a Hard Place, Cowboy Jamboree, Bending Genres, Punk Noir, Stanchion and elsewhere. His story "Carmelita" is forthcoming in Literary Garage's Warren Zevon-inspired collection BAD INTENTIONS, to be released in July, 2026. Find him at jessebinger.com, X: @jessebinger and BlueSky: @jessebinger.bsky.social.

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