...to have and to hold

 

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We’ll always have a pistol to each other's heads, won't we?

I’m writing her name in the condensation on the table as the thought arrives. My mind wanders to someplace about 3000 miles from the Avenue because my company is disinterested. She asks another question, I begin another answer, neither of us really pays that much attention while the traffic lights change and it rains a few miles south of here. This is twenty-six, this is twenty-seven. This is every second, minute, hour, and day we've wasted aiming for the not-happy-just-appeased.

Pull the plug.

But I never do. I never do.

I don't think that I can.