“I won’t know when your coming. I won’t be expecting it. That way it shouldn’t hurt as much.”, I remember her saying and played out in my mind. “It’s a fucking gunshot, Sara. It’s going to hurt. I can goddamn gaurantee it’ll hurt.”, I hit back. “Hurt. I know it’s gonna fucking hurt! At this point, Avery, a wound will heal. It’s the goddamn day to day pain that I can’t take.”, she blasted. She looked at the desk in the living room. It practically looked stunted. Almost in a fetile position in the corner, rimmed by a sick 40w bulb that felt yellow as it lay across the shifted papers. She picked up the paper weight that had “Sin City” encrusted in the glass. "This paper weight hurts,Sam. These coffee cups hurt. This Monet ,fucking, poster hurts! The fact that we can’t barbecue on our 6’ X 3’ fucking balcony in New York in fear that we’ll burn the fucking building down hurts, Avery! " She began to go completely ape shit. “It hurts that you don’t care enough for me and our life to fucking shoot me!” She began to tear up. When Sara cried I always felt the worst. Even when I hadn’t done anything it made me feel terrible. When Sara cried I always felt like I could have done something to prevent it. I felt angry at the world for being so cold that it would cause someone so beautiful to be hurt. The irony was that in that state she never looked more beautiful and sweet. My mind had spun with contradictions in those moments of last night. This thought, coupled with the oppressive heat , was making me unable to walk through the morning routine. I had already taken a shower and the thought of rinsing off sounded like a good one.Perhaps, it was something else that I wanted to get clean of. The thought that was turning over and over, again and again. Why I kept stumbling like a cat with a sock on his head. I kept coming back to the image of me walking up to her, aiming the gun, and then putting a bullet in her small, fragile body . No easy task. Oh, you can bounce around an idea, real casual like. You can open a bottle,catch a buzz , and plan the perfect crime. Put it into practice and things start to crumble like a 4th grade ashtray in art class. I wasn’t a saint, but it had been a long time since I had done things. I was convinced that I had put them away when I met Sara. Like so many things you put away. I put the past right next to dusty frames, ball cards, ornaments, and light strands that half worked. I stored my past between some boxes and a framed picture of a Lamborghini. I didn’t think she wanted any of those things in the living room or around decent company. Was it convenient for her to unpack this now? Who was it that would have to do the heavy lifting?I poured the coffee into the usual plastic mug. I put out one cigarette and lit another. She began to stir. I took her in one more time, unlatched the loud bolt, and slipped out into the hall and down into the suffering street. I had to get the Q in 4 minutes which meant I would start sweating early today.