By Shane Alexander Greenhough
Copyright 2013 Shane Alexander Greenhough
It always comes down to this: him and me; two six-packs of Black Label and my dad’s old service revolver.
It’s a twisted bit of fun, maybe, but it’s ours. We’re slightly twisted people, after all.
“Isn’t everyone?” asks Ethan, drawing the lip of a dark-glassed bottle back from his mouth. He places it on the table-top between us, lets out an ‘mmm’ of satisfaction and spins the cylinder at the centre of the gun’s chrome body.
I offer a
half-cocked smirk in reply.
“Maybe,” I concede. I don’t say it, but I rather like to think that we’re a little more twisted than most people. Anything to set us apart, I suppose.
My wife is asleep upstairs, and there’s a small but insistent part of me that wishes she’d wake to catch us in the act, if for no other reason than to rock the boat. You know, shake things up around here. No chance of that, however. Our lives, our habits and routines are as predictable as the sun.
I guess that’s why we do this.
I lean forward and look Ethan dead in the eyes. There’s no real reason behind the gesture, other than the image it might provide some unseen observer. Ah, the narcissism. If my life were in fact, a movie the audience would have fallen asleep or vacated the theatre about a decade ago.