On the role of firearms in maintaining a Healthy Relationship.

"Do you keep it loaded?" she asks
with an inquisitive face strangely cheery
for a woman, not seeming the least bit alarmed
at the answer she knows she'll receive.

"Wouldn't be much use if it wasn't."

She asks to see it.
I accommodate without hesitation.
She should know how it works--
might have to someday.

I think back to how odd it was that
my dad had me bring my
gun safety course certificate
to school when I was in the fourth grade
to show my teacher and principal
that I respected the rules
or at least knew them.
They patted me on the back uncomfortably
probably would've had me expelled
if it wasn't during the pre-Columbine era.

Some people won't ever understand that
fear is just a lack of knowledge.

I remove it from its case
making sure the safety's on
though I know it is, hoping that
she sees me following the proper procedure.

It feels like an old friend in my hands
though I haven't used it in eight years

at least haven't pulled the trigger.




"How many bullets do you keep in it?"

"Shells, not bullets. Two of them.
I have to pump it once
in order to load the chamber."
I show her what I mean as the two-fold
clicking noise of metal on metal
made popular by Hollywood
brings it all home.
"I used to keep a third one in the barrel
but not anymore."
I remember why I used to
and why I don't anymore
and it's not the cranked air conditioning
that makes me shiver.

The first shell ejects from the side
and lands on my bed as I pump it again
and the second is sucked into the barrel.
One more slide clears that one, too.
It's harmless now, a castrated pederast.

"See? It's easy."

I let her hold the empty shotgun
showing her how to raise it to eye level
and bury the butt in the meat of the shoulder
to absorb the recoil safely.

"Why do you only keep two in there?"

I think for a second.
"Well, if I can't hit whatever I'm aiming at
with two shots then..."

"...you're not very good and don't deserve to hit it,"
she finishes.

"Boy, if I had a dollar for every time..."

"Shut up, Baby."

She hands it back, I sheath it again
before returning it to its run-of-the-mill hiding place.

The rabbit scratches around in her litter box
in the corner of my room, the two of us
lay back down to stare at the ceiling fan
and all goes back to almost normal.