He placed it on the desk before him. It felt heavy, solid, capable. He laughed at the irony. If only he felt that way himself, he wouldn't have the gun sitting in front of him in the first place.
He thought he'd feel more, what? Jumbled maybe. But no, the idea came to him a few weeks back during one of their talks. When he had called her--well, ichatted anyway. Wasn't that the same thing these days?
"Hey, I'm online now...u on?"
She came on. "Whassup?"
They talked for awhile. He wasn't sure why he had looked her up a few months back. It had been over twenty years. F**k, twenty years, man. And he still knew her birthday, their "anniversary." His heart plunged every year when those dates rolled around.
He told her she was the BEST thing that had ever happened to him.
"Then why'd you f**k it up?" she asked.
"Pile," he replied.
"What do you remember about me?" she asked.
"Everything," he told her.
"Not good enough," she teased. "Be specific."
"Your hands are beautiful and your eyes...your eyes are the most amazing shade of green and could stop a band just walking into a club," he told her.
No reply.
"You there?" he asked.
"I'm crying," she replied.
"Here's one for ya," he began. "For the last twenty years, whenever I fill out a lottery ticket, I use a combination of our birthdays and our anniversary. If anyone asks why those numbers, I just tell 'em cuz they're lucky. I've never shared that with anyone before. I hope that doesn't freak you out."
"Oh honey," she admitted, "my heart is breaking all over again."
Then she wrote "I still love you, too, you know."
They chatted for months online, traded pictures. He told her he was doing great. Settled, happy, all about his son. She'd never know it was a crock of s**t. They lived in different areas. Yea, she might come back to town once in awhile to see her folks, but he could make himself scarce. Not that he wanted to. He wanted to hold her close, smell her scent, kiss her again. Damn, they were good at that.
The thing was...man, he was hot for her.
"I want to do things to you that you only read about in books," he told her late one night.
"Well, considering that I'm married, probably not the best idea," she laughed.
"Yea, don't remind me," he grumbled. "Does your husband know, you know, that we're talking?"
"Yes" she told him. "He understands. You were my first love. My God, I loved you so much. I love you still. But you broke my heart many ways, many times. Shattered me. I can still feel how it tore. I had to leave you, you know?"
Yea, he knew. He also knew he couldn't have hung onto her. He was a townie with a temper and a taste for beer who barely finished high school. He was the drunk who couldn't keep a job, who spent a few nights in jail once in a while to dry out. She got her degree and jetted for the east coast. Met her man. He'd lost her. Pile.
"I worked out a ton after we broke up, you know," he told her. "Got real big."
"Oh yea? And you're telling me this because...?" she teased.
"Well, I thought if I looked really buffed, you'd take me back. Though I knew at that point with me, you know, uh, cheating and all, there was slim chance of that," he explained.
"Honey," she said "it wasn't the outside that I left. It was whatever that was going through your head that couldn't stay connected to me that I left.” Pause. "I'd do it all again."
He was silent. "I'm a broken man," he told her.
"Oh babe," she said "I'm so sorry."
"NOT YOUR FAULT," he said and signed off.
And that's when he knew. It wasn't just losing her--it was the whole big f*****g pile. He was at the bottom and still going down. People who say that cliché 'there's nowhere to go but up' have never been down where he was--out of work, a drunk, no car, completely broke, estranged from his son, no woman, all family dead and gone, too embarrassed to ask friends for a handout any more than he already had...the gun his only friend. Some friend.
He dreamed about her that last night. She came to him as he lay in his bed; she lay that stunning body beside him and put her beautiful hand over his heart and told him she forgave him; he held her all night. He smiled. When he awoke, he could feel the smile still there, his first in many months. It was time.
They spoke online at noon that final day. Mundane things, about her kids, his lunch. She had to run.
"One last thing before we go," he wrote.
"Yes?" she asked.
"Just know that you'll always hold a piece of my heart in the palm of your hand," he wrote.
"Why are you telling me this now?" she asked him.
Damn, he thought, that woman is smart.
"We'll talk later. I'll be on tonight." he promised.
He knew she'd be upset but he couldn't help that. It was their pattern. He never really understood how he'd had her in the first place. He shut his eyes tightly, amazed that she had ever loved him. As he fought back a tear, he discovered that his fists were clenched so tightly that his nails were digging into his palms; he opened them slowly, staring at his empty hands. It was time to go.
His one note was written. His son. He left it in the truck. There was no other option. He picked up the gun, felt the weight of it. He never wavered as he placed the gun over his heart. He was heartbroken anyway.
This just sealed the deal.
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