This is my entry for the Constrained Writing Contest #11, hosted by @svashta.

This week’s constraints are:
Tell a fictional story from (at least) two different perspectives
The entire story must be at least 300 words long

The Meeting

The Man

I know too much. They know I know too much. Why was I chosen? Silly, average, me. In a way I should’ve been expecting it. I’ve always felt deep down that I was destined for greatness, that someone like Marty would walk into my computer repair shop at any moment and give me a note like the one Marty gave me. The government, they don’t just collect data from our smartphones and internet activity and text messages and voice calls, they’re doing things that most people would consider invasive. And I know about it and they know I know, and now they’re going to stop me. He’s one of them. Is he one of them? I need to get rid of the device. I need to get rid of it now. This trashcan will do. There could be more, I need to get rid of everything. My clothes, my wallet, my backpack. Nothing so that they can’t trace me and I can get to the next point and meet the contact and the job will get done. This is it, the coffee shop. Which one is her? Marty’s note said brown hair and glasses and that I would recognize her by the signal. The signal. Is that it? That’s it. Is that it? I’ve been made and I know I’ve been made but if I get it to her the job will get done.

“Here’s the package. Take it to the drop spot.” Why are her eyes so wild?

The Woman

I drink my coffee and read the newspaper. It’s quiet. The coffee is good. I like this place. I should come here more often. Stopping on the way to work, I always feel rushed. But on Saturday mornings, I have all the time in the world. I should come here on more Saturday mornings. The coffee, the paper, maybe a walk downtown later. Maybe I’ll go the gym. I should go to the gym. The door, why is the door so loud? Who is that man? Why is he naked? Oh no, he’s coming over here. He’s looking at me. Of course he’s looking at me. Why do all the crazies look at me? That guy back in high school, the homeless people talking to themselves. Why?

“Here’s the package. Take it to the drop spot.”
“Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I can’t be too aggressive or he might engage me more. Short. Curt. Responses. That’s the way I’ve always dealt with this kind of thing. I ignore him, he gets the message and leaves me alone.
“The package. We need to get the job done. We need to get it done.”
“Sorry. I’m just trying to enjoy a quiet morning.”

Thank God, people are noticing. The cafe workers are getting him away from me. Maybe I shouldn’t come back here again.