The knocking on the car window startled Gary from the trance-like state he’d reached while staring at the gun. Looking up, he saw her welcome, hardened face and rolled down the window.

“Thinking about it again, huh?” she asked, her whiskey-laden breath making him nauseous.

“Hey, Felicia.” He managed a weak grin and then, almost as an after-thought to himself, said, “Yeah, again. Maybe one of these days I’ll actually do it.”

“Yeah, and maybe you won’t.”

Gary shrugged, looked at the gun and then back at her. A smoldering weed hung from her cracked lips, scars pocked the bends of both arms, and her hip-huggers were stretched to their limits. But, she was beautiful. To him, a comfort and a salvation—if only for a little while.

“Come on.” She winked. “You know what you really want.”

And she was right.

Laying the gun aside, he got out and pecked her on the cheek. “I love you.”

“No, you don’t.” She took his arm and led him into her room. “What the hell happened to your face?”

The door closed behind them.

View this story's 2 comments.