Suffer the Vehicle

At 12 metres, the air bloomed a cobalt blue. Static. Alive.
She appeared to forget and recollect. At this distance there was a structure to her movements. 
The waitress led her to a single table. At seven metres, no memory of events. She studied the scene. I was part of that scene, indistinguishable from the white furniture, the sounds in their correct spaces. She placed herself within the geometry of the room. Designed by her, for the sake of clarity.
I watched her for minutes or hours. Time becomes irrelevant sometimes. In that ninety degree placement it was about all things. Objects in their right place. Streaming in the correct channels. It was an elegant equation. No interference.  Perfection.
As I took out the gun and fired, in that dining room by the river, by the cathedral, on that summer's day, everything was clear once again.