I kept a loaded ’45 under the bed in a little lock box that I could undo pretty quickly, but it was under my bed, how could I get to it while my wife was on the bed giving her ass to our two upstairs neighbors? Crap, how to do it, how to do it? I need a gun and quick. Then I remembered it, the small handgun that my wife had in her purse, I had insisted she get it when she had told me about one of her errands at work that had taken her to a very nasty part of town. I went to her purse in the family room and searched around until I found the small gun, it was little and obviously not meant for this task, but I could at least use it to get to my ’45. I loaded the gun with the three bullets that normally fit in little molded rings along the bottom of the small handle. I couldn’t hold the gun correctly because my hand pretty much dwarfed the small thing, but I figured it would work for the task I had in mind. I took the gun and went back to the bedroom, there on the bed was my wife, still. Inhales deep and slow. He just takes the moment inside him because he knows in a few seconds it’s going to be gone forever. It’s like breathing a picture of her, and letting it pass out of courtesy would have been a cowardly shame. She touches his hand once lightly and leaves. As she’s shutting the door, she pauses half way and tells him to relax and take his time. If he wants to he can take a shower later on. He sits on the bed and the door quietly closes the rest of the way. He leans back, feet still touching the floor and spreads out his arms. Another unfamiliar ceiling. Muffled sounds of a woman moving through her house. A fan turning on. The ceiling turns to liquid and begins to swirl. His eyes slowly flutter shut and breath deepens and slows. He knows he should toe off his shoes and move the rest of the way onto the bed, but he enters that state of floating between sleep and awake, and moving is off the list of options. His body’s gone to sleep but his mind won’t follow. .
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