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Tell It Again
by Jennifer Worrell Nan's voice, rough with cigarettes and age, sawed away at yet another anecdote about her latest trip to Tuscany and the city's stunning mountain vistas. Susan fidgeted, wringing her hands under the table: a nervous habit that came about when the desire to wring someone's neck, even for the simple sake of silence, would arise. Ray caught Susan's eyes from across the table. He made the shape of a gun with his hand, thumb trigger drawn and tense, and held it up to his right temple. Susan stifled a giggle; he made these dinners with his aunt less unbearable. He crossed his eyes, dangled his tongue out the corner of his mouth, and thrust down his thumb in a feigned shooting; there was an unexpected bang and he slumped at an odd angle over the edge of the table, his right hand dropping rigidly onto his placemat. His temple and index finger were smoking, both singed black as coal. There was no blood or even a wound; it was as though the bullet was forged from sheer desperation. Susan crouched at her husband's side as the other diners stared in confused disbelief and questions swirled like angry bees: how did this happen? was that a gunshot? is he dead? Susan had no answers. When she raised her head, Nan's looming, petulant face was inches from her own, and Susan realized she was left with her alone. Susan reached for Ray's hand and, staring into the depths of the black residue on his finger, squeezed so tightly she could feel the bones crack. |
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