Dear friend,
do you mind if I call you Mr Shooter?
I know it’s a little presumptuous of me,
but I do feel you owe me a bit of time.
After all, attempting to shoot me in the back
was more than a little slight
on my good nature.
So then — why?
What persuaded you
that I was worthy of this attention?
Now, now, don’t be embarrassed.
We are all friends here.
Go on.
Shoot.
I watched him go a strange red colour
as we spoke.
A small tear rolled down his left cheek.
It looked rather pretty,
glistening in the sun —
a certain iridescence, perhaps.
His mouth moved too,
only nothing came out.
I could tell he was trying,
but all I could hear
was something raspy,
like the flint on an old-fashioned cigarette lighter
that refuses to spark.
I waited.
I even held my breath for that answer.
You see, nobody had ever attempted that before.
It’s not every day you get shot at.
Well — not in a peaceful little town like ours.
I noticed a wedding ring then too.
He had a love,
or at least used to.
He had a life too —
but did I,
having confronted him?
Then he wandered over to me,
put his arms around me,
and just hugged and hugged.
No words spoken.
I stood rigid, frozen in time
as this man —
this assailant,
this would-be murderer —
embraced me.
Then he started speaking,
a gentle raspy whisper
in my ear…