Complete the short story/flash fiction, that has the following opening:
The balcony was cool in the early morning light and the noise of the city, muted for the past few hours, was beginning to grow. The sun was now shining fully on the patio set that was on the small balcony and she sat there, drinking her coffee and drinking in the morning. She loved the early morning, the period between night and day where the nocturnal were going to sleep and the rest of the world was beginning to wake up. And with a fresh hot cup of coffee in her hands the feeling of comfort, she felt by inhaling the aroma and holding the cup in both of her hands couldn’t be matched.
She had to admit, she thought, taking another sip, that Jazz new his coffee. She remembered the first time he made her coffee and she had taken a sip how the special blend he had created made her feel welcome and, well, home. She had been a frequent visitor over the past few months, dropping by on a regular, always asking for a cup of his special blend. The friendship, started over coffee, soon grew so that she and Jazz were rarely separated. Friends, not lovers like other suspected, with a common respect for a great cup of coffee.
She sighed as she took the last sip of her coffee, holding the cup upside down so that the last drops of brown ambrosia could fall into her waiting mouth. The cup was finished. Done. Much like her job. She stood up with the cup in her hand and opened the balcony sliding door with her gloved hand, being careful to only touch the edges of items. Closing and locking the sliding door behind her she went into the kitchen and washed her cup making sure that there were no fingerprints or epithelial cells on the cup before putting it back on the shelf.
She made sure that the gun was hidden beneath her hoodie and then, stepping around the body and the slowly congealing pool of blood that centered around his head, she went to the front door of the apartment, wiping surfaces on her way. Confident that there were no new traces in the apartment she opened the door, removed her gloves and stepped through. She quietly closed the door, making sure it locked, before she straightened up. She went down the hall to the garbage shoot and reached upwards, finding the ledge and the plastic bag that she had adhered to the wall earlier in the week. She placed the gun and gloves in the bad, sealed it up, and walked back to Jazz’s apartment.
“I’m going to miss that coffee,” she said quietly. Then mussing her hair and putting on the look of a distraught friend she starting hammering on the door, loud enough to wake the neighbours.
“Jazz? Jazz? Open up, man, open up. I know something’s wrong. Jazz? Jazz?” The tears that came were not totally fake.
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