Revolver

It didn't take much for her to imagine a life with him. Still, that never stopped her from going overboard. It was a drink of her own invention, if it could be called one drink. She was a bourbon girl, and she had her preference. The revolver was made by placing six shot glasses in a circle and filling them with Bulleit. Six glasses, six chambers, the name was obvious. And it was a special she would share with friends, usually, except tonight. Tonight she downed them one by one and gathered pieces of feelings she might call courage. Or if not that, whatever courage comes with distance.

What a face, what hair, what a black ensemble. He was what anyone would call tall, dark, and handsome, the kind of man whose entrance changes the soundtrack. There was an attractive self-contained violence to him. He sat like he was moving, and he drank neat whiskey.

Moira had seen him once before. Three or so weeks ago, at this very bar. She wasn't sure if it was the dim light or the weight of the drink that put him on this pedestal. He was a lover, a friend, a husband and father, a hero, hers, all at once and in an instant. She thought of nothing but villas and lovemaking, strong coffee and stronger language, silence and passion and all the good things. She had never imagined a fantasy quite so easily, or quite so fully. There was something about him that filled in all the gaps in her mind.

When she came to he was gone. She would ask the bartender when he left, if he was with anyone. She would go to the bathroom and sit in the stall for far too long. She would turn down water and order another revolver, firing through the chambers one by one. Throwing her head back, whipping her hair, trying to get someone's attention.