I'm good at separating my lives. By day, I'm a good girlfriend and a proud cat mom, by night I'm a bruiser. She's an investigative reporter- she writes stories about things my gang has done, and she sleeps next to the person that's done those things. I don't involve her; and I rarely- if ever- talk about her to my coworkers. I take a different route to her place each night- I'm quick and elusive. There's been a turf war between us and the Vipers- a rival gang trying to overtake the territory we've held for fifty years. I don't want her getting caught in the crossfire. I don't have many weak points, but she's by biggest one.

I'm dangerous, I could get her killed. I'd never forgive myself, if she died. I've never really dated anyone who wasn't affiliated. We met at a coffee shop- she bumped into me like some sort of stupid meet-cute. Took her a few days to ask for my number, and I gave it. Willingly, like an idiot. I took her out and dropped her back at her place, where she kissed my cheek and told me she was free on tuesday at six-thirty. Now, I do my dirty work while she sleeps with our son- a black kitten named Fable. I sneak back in before she wakes up, and make her breakfast.

She likes to talk about what-ifs. She's a real dreamer, that one. She likes to talking about marriage and babies and living the good life- I won't live long, not long enough to see the future she dreams about. I just nod and kiss her, and listen to her talk about how someday we'll get married- she'll wear a nice, white dress and we'll have a big cake with peaches and real whipping cream because it's my favourite. I ache, in a place deep inside, for this life. I want to settle into the suburbs with her, and drink coffee on our porch in the morning and drive our kids to the first day of school- but I'm sure I'll die young and she won't cry at my funeral- if I even get one- because she'll be angry I never got the chance to get out for her.

She knows. She doesn't like it, but she knows what I am. I couldn't let her do this without knowing who I am or what that means for me. She comes with me to The Roost on occasion, but she says the people make her nervous so we go home. I've had a few buddies over at my place while she was cooking, and I sat them down and told them that what;s mine is hers, and she will not face any disrespect. Now, sometimes, she send me to work with a tinful of cookies. She's perfect- funny, sassy, bossy- my perfect woman. I just can’t shake this worry that I’ll be the reason she doesn’t wake up someday. She doesn’t understand what gang life is like- I would be hunted down if I ran out on them.

I zone back in at the dinner table in her apartment, my food mostly untouched in front of me. “Odie, sweetheart, are you okay?” She asks, putting her warm hand on top of mine. She made Butter Chicken with homemade naan today, and I wish I could taste it. It’s smells amazing, but I’m so absorbed in my worry everything tastes like wood shavings. Her head is tilted at me, one hand on top of mine and the other holding her glass of juice- she doesn’t drink. She takes a sip, then gets up. She grabs a cold beer from the fridge, then brings it to me and sits on my lap. She opens it with the bottle opener on my Swiss Army knife, which sits on the table. One hand lands on my cheek, the other tips the beer into my mouth gently.