It wasn’t like the water I was in was boiling hot, steaming might be more appropriate. Nonetheless, it was an uncomfortable situation.
“It’s rude to hold a gun on somebody,” I said, leveling my voice as best as possible.
“I didn’t do it,” I said, using the distraction of my voice to inch my hand towards my coat pocket.
It’s a weird thing to stare down the barrel of a gun. You’d think you wouldn’t see much, the barrel being so small, but it’s like your vision, your life, telescopes down to a single pin-point of being. I imagined I could see down the inside length of the barrel, the spiraling lines which might soon striate the bullet.
“Can we talk?”
I stared down the darkness of the barrel of the gun, imaging I could see the bullet nestled deep inside.
“Look, I wasn’t the one.”
Just a little more time.
“I wasn’t there.”
My hand inched closer.
“”You have the wrong guy.”
My fingers closed around …