GOOD LUCK - 1976

    The American had already been in country for a little under two years helping the locals.

    As he stepped outside, the air choked his lungs: a mix of sweat, motor oil, gasoline, and burning trash. The sky overhead was dull, overcast; though it was morning, it felt like dusk. But it didn’t fucking matter because he had only one thing on his mind:

    She was Chinese with waist-length, jet-black hair. Her hair was so black that in the sunlight it shone blue. 

    She worked as a English teacher at a nearby elementary school and in the summer months took refuge behind the cashier at a local bookstore that he’d frequent.

    Today was the day he was going to get her.