My Turn

Slipping easily off the deck railing you grasped my wrist and even in the dark I could see you were dead serious. You said you were tired of playing fxking spin~the~bottle. And you spat as if to add, "in this Life," placing a small semi-automatic in the middle of the glass table of our little patio. I'm dumb about guns and you proceeded to fill me in: "Glock 21 .45 ACP ...thirteen rounds."

"...How many bullets does it have?" I hazard beyond the technical details.

"Just one."

"I don't know this game," I whisper into your ear, suddenly fully present in the moment, aware of your firm hand, the air compressing within me, pressure elevating with each breath of yours upon my neck while you sigh, "It's simple," as if to say self-explanatory.

The unsettled and uncharacteristically ornate, mother-of-pearlized-handle of the thing under the umbrella nods and grins in the breeze like a shock of white teeth caught in flash the sweaty paparazzi streetlights. A fine model. I draw my eyes back up to you...

"Well..?"

"..if there were two bullets you think we'd know how this would end..." my voice trails off into the cul-de-sac.

I know it's my turn, because you are already host of this cabaret. So how will it go down? Philosophically. Stoically. A literary ending? is that what you see for us... we couldn't make it work in life, so we'll make up for it in poetic Death?

"Yup," you let go of my wrist abruptly and gesture gallantly at the thing in question, twisting your fingers a little like I don't already get the idea... and I'm wracking my imagination for what next..?!

"And if it points to you, you shoot? or I shoot you?" I wonder out loud.

"You're the Spinner," you say with a puff of condensation escaping into the air. The sinner I correct myself...

".o.k," if you insist, I confess now I'm curious as to the probability versus the randomness.

For a moment, I wish we had a dog. God. The barrel would aim at the muzzle, and you would call the whole thing a bluff. But it's just us. No softness between brethren. Not even a fog to dress our grievances in the wilderness.

You've gotten under my skin and stoop to spin the sh*t; aggravated it slips into the hole by the pole and slides across the funnel shaped anchoring pedestal landing neutral at your feet like a loyal mutt begging.

"My turn," you say replacing it craftily on the far edge closest to yourself.