The Gun Weighed Heavily In His Hand

by Shawn Allen

“I’m sorry,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

Embarrassed and abruptly sad, she rose from the table, gathered up her things and vanished into the afternoon rain outside the diner.

Staring at the empty table, he realized that their meals had not been served yet,. He looked at the tightly wrapped silverware and the single rose in the cheap glass vase, but did not see them.

He suddenly knew that this morning had been the last time she would serve him breakfast. It had become a ritual: a seat at the counter, the ‘usual,’ bursts of conversation when she wasn’t taking care of other customers.

Then, the gun was in his hand. It was cold and heavy and somehow familiar; like a lover.

Thunder shook the rain-splattered window glass.

A lonely petal fell from the rose, to the floor.


(c) Shawn D. Allen