…SHE STOOD WIELDING a shotgun. Except it wasn’t of course. It was a love gun.
Far more lethal, the kind of damage inflicted, that no surgeon or physician could see, let alone heal. The very reason I’d taken to wearing a flak-jacket at all times.
I looked her in the eyes, deploring her not to.
Then she aimed it at my head, true and steady. At my weakness.
I didn’t feel it, but I remember pleading, my inner voice asking her to be kind, not to hurt me when she leaves. Knowing that one day she’d run out of bullets, but I saw in her look, she hadn’t yet but that’s ok I guess, for her to step on me like a stone. Because that’s what I was doing too, only, hoping she would be my last.
Perhaps she hadn’t noticed my love knife yet. More subtle, don’t you think?
Strange ways to declare our feelings, but better to bleed to death slowly, than rot from the inside out. The moment we met, knowing it was a departure, not an arrival, one of many, one of a few.
One: too many. For me…