I could kill every one of you for a red velvet cupcake.

I sat quite still, moving only as much as the rocking of the train forced me to do. Gazing out the window, I pretended to ignore the man in the seat opposite me. He was average in every way, medium of stature and complexion, with a faint trace of stubble on his upper lip. His hair he had cropped into a nondescript style, and he had dressed himself in a bland charcoal suit with a white shirt and a bland charcoal tie.

That was all he wanted anyone to see.

I, however, saw that the haircut was freshly done, and the undersides of his fingernails sported traces of a dark powder. I noticed the indentations at his temples, and the faint line across the bridge of his nose. I observed his two phones. His suit still bore an indentation from the plastic tab that held the price label in place. His shoes, boots rather, were too heavy for the average office commuter, and they still had smears of river clay in places. Honestly, why did nobody every give any thought to shoes in a proper disguise?

This man certainly had the shoes of an assassin.

Oh, and he had a disassembled rifle, mostly in the case between his feet, and four rounds of ammunition in his pocket.

I maintained my expressionless commuter stare as the train slowed, and eventually rolled to a stop at the platform. As the passengers rose and began to collect their belongings, I moved with them and waited for my opportunity. The tide of humanity did nearly all of the work for me.

A tall man stepped backward at just the wrong moment, wedging me against a woman in a shapeless wool cap. She sputtered an apology as she tried to spring away, only to butt up against the two passengers behind her. I deliberately tangled a foot with hers, causing us to stumble in opposite directions. I regained my footing most clumsily, by colliding with the suited assassin. The ceramic needle between my fingers bit through the cheap fabric, dosing him with poison. I observed his face, but he was only irritated with my clumsiness, and he shoved me upright with notable non-commuter strength.

"Excusez," I mumbled, ducking my head. As he made another angry face and clutched at his case, I backed up between two middle-aged women. One of them swore at me vigorously in Basque.

The normal flow of passengers carried me off of the train and away from the man who would die in approximately thirty-eight minutes. He would never arrive at his destination. Satisfied that my work was done, I disappeared into Paris.

But memories are only an intrusion on the past, and no more useful than wishing for desserts.