By Daniel Braum
Read by Ben Phillips
We push our way through the hot maze of cologned bodies and emerge into the relative quiet of the street. She fishes in her purse but instead of taking out a pack of cigarettes she pulls out the little black gun. She holds it up admiring it in the streetlight.
“Didn’t you want to take them home. Didn’t you want to-”
“Aw fuck. What the hell are you doing with that? Don’t take it out here!”
I snatch the gun and stuff it back into her purse.
“Hey. Easy there,” she says. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re not going to. You said.”
She’s much too calm. It’s that calmness that scares me.