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Stingy Shoot-Outs
"Hold on, hold on," she says, loading a tiny six-shooter-holding it between her thumb and forefinger, careful not to break a nail. We're squared off at the center of town, outside the feed store across from the saloon. But nobody shows up anymore. She gazes down through her bifocals-drops a bullet the size of a rice grain and curses. On her knees now looking for it. I'm standing there, waiting to draw. Twenty-three years together has not only diminished any meaningful firepower, but accompanying drum rolls as well. Finally she reloads, reholsters.
"One, two..." She gets hers off first and I watch the round slowly sail toward me; a period stripped from a sentence. The small head over an "i", dropping at my feet; I don't even bother to pick up.
"How About Osaka's for dinner?" I say.
"Seems like we just went there," she replies, her spurs musical as she approaches.
"Your call," I tell her.
"Osaka is fine," she says and I can tell she's really excited. We head back to our horses.
