Love Gun

Love Gun

            Ann Savoy and Her Sleepless Nights sing softly from my tiny bistro kitchen.  Arriving two hours ago, you promptly showered.  You have dreams of being an actor, and I have dreams of being a dream.  .  I don’t talk about my brokenness, but you don’t ask.  That’s what makes this work, if you can even call us a this.  Two or three times a week, we’re just two adults finding cadence with nakedness.  August wind makes sea green taffeta curtains move; my wind chime finds rhythm with Savoy.

            “So where’d you put that bugger,” you ask, standing naked in front of me.  It’s not quite dusk, but well after evening.  Friday at the end of summer - the undergrads having returned for another round of study, my sleepy street is coming alive.     

            “There, in the drawer, underneath Ganesh.  Oh, and I guess I should tell you,” I pause, propping pale body on bony elbow; I don’t bother to close my legs.   We’ve been lovers long enough that modesty seems so Puritan, and I just saw Neva for my wax. 

“There’s a gun in there.  I have a gun.”   

            You grin, blue eyes opening wide.      

“A gun you say, like a real gun?”  You affect a Sean Connery accent, forever pretending to be someone else.  One day, I’d like to see the raw you, but I know I won’t. This is just a passing fling, right? Breeze tickles my skin prickled with sweat.  I chew over how much I should tell you about my life, before.  I can’t decide so I don’t say anything.  A car ignition turns over outside; I know it’s a Nissan by sound, but I don’t say that either. 

            “It’s a Glock,” I start, “17.”  I know you know nothing of pistols, let alone the kind of life that would require a person to keep a gun next to her bed.  “I thought of telling you the other day when you came over, but something happened, and I forgot.”  I shrug my shoulders.  I don’t want to talk about my gun, I want to talk about yours – the one between your legs, standing at attention like a Russian soldier during Red December.  And, I really did intend to tell you.  But then I remembered you’re from the suburbs and I know my city life will change the way you look at me.  Better to keep the past hidden until it has to come out.     

            You turn toward the pine nightstand, abs clenched, penis erect.  A giggle is beginning in the deepest part of my throat.  The first time we were here, after slacklining in the park, I laughed as I came.   I know it unnerved you.

“Sure, something happened,” you say knowing full well that I didn’t tell you for a very specific reason. You pull open the drawer, the bronze statue of my deity rattling with sound, to find the Magnum condom you left here last week.  I watch as you look at the steel gun, but refrain from touching it. 

            “Every day,” you start, pulling back the foil of the wrapper, “You find another way to pull the trigger on my love gun.” Your voice, falsetto in the shower, rings baritone true in my bedroom. 

            “Really?  KISS?” I try to keep the surprise from my voice.  You’re way too young for the band. 

            We both know it’s a cheesy line.  You wrap up slowly, anticipation building.  After, we lie silent.  The giggle that’s been hiding in me comes to the surface and I full on laugh, turning toward you.  You ground me in an Asian tradition, closing the hole that you opened.  It’s something you picked up across the pond.  Just enough quiet passes before you begin to speak, thinking I want to hear your voice.  Talking after sex is something for the movies, not something for real life, and surely not something for this moment after you’ve quoted me KISS, seen my gun and might’ve seen a glimpse of my truth, if you were paying attention.   

You sing Love Gun two times through and I go to pour wine, turning up Duo Gadjo to hear her sing to me. 

“Voyin,” I call out, “gde ti,” as if I could lose you in this studio apartment.  I find you in my bedroom standing in Euro-style briefs, looking down the barrel of my gun.  I’m not sure if you’re aware of what you’re doing.

“What the fuck?”  I drop the glasses of wine, and rush to you, kicking you in the shins.  The kick does little to move you, but it startles you just enough. 

“Who points a gun at himself?  Do you want to accidently shoot your head off?”  God, I sound like a mother.

“I just wanted to see what was inside,” you whine. 

“That’s elementary shit, Voyin.  Don’t fuck around like that.”  I begin telling you about a friend I had in the underground days who shot himself in the thigh while trying to look gangster, twirling his pistol.  The intent of the story is lost on you. 

“Bushi, it’s not like I was really going to do anything,” you say.  I think you’re convincing yourself more than me.

“Give me the piece,” I hold out my hand.  “And get a broom from the back room.  There’s glass everywhere.”

I put the gun away, Ganesh looking at me knowingly.  Maybe you are just a kid from the suburbs.  Maybe it’s time to end this.  Dinah begins singing her blues.  I sigh and show you out.