“Hello, Sweetie.” Her voice is liquid silk, no hint of venom or fear of the gun I hold to her head.
“Pumpkin,” I respond, my voice wavering in contrast. She knows me too well.
“I could say sorry, you know?”
“You won’t, though.”
“I know, “ she sighs, “then decide, my love.”
I pull the trigger.
Darrell S.
