She’d grown tired of waiting and decided to pretend she was the star of a French New Wave film; a fantasy that gave her license to play with his gun. His apartment became a grainy black and white scene that invited her to take hold of the pistol and aim it at items the audience would interpret as significant. In truth they were random, but now she had something to do.
She plopped on the bed and lit a cigarette, which would have pissed him off, not because he hated smoking, but he detested contamination. The phone rang and she entertained letting it go until the answering machine picked up. Maybe the caller would unwittingly give her lover away by divulging just enough information to allow her the upper hand.
The phone stopped ringing. The apartment was silent. She placed the pistol to her temple and imagined the scene he would come home to if only she had the will. The thought made her laugh out loud; a howl that teetered on the edge of hysteria.
She rolled over and propped herself on her knees as though she were straddling an imaginative scene partner, pointing the gun at his would be head. She stared down the barrel, ignoring the tingle between her legs. Too cliched, she thought as the smile wilted from her face. She took aim and curled her finger around the trigger.
The kick knocked her off the bed. By the time she’d realized what she’d done, she was on the floor and lying on her back. Her ears were ringing and a flock of feathers rained down on her like a ticker tape parade of cotton and gun smoke.
Her eyes pulled focus as he stood over her with a look of boredom that matched her own.
He spoke in wry voice, “Those sheets were Italian.”