Pop

Liz quickly shuffled up the five flights of stairs to her apartment, the worn shoes on her feet rubbing hard against her skin, creating calluses. Work had been hell: her boss yelled at her, she spilled hot coffee on her leg, the tips few. She was hurrying up the staircase, looking forward to spending a nice, quiet evening with her boyfriend, Bernie. Bernie got home an hour before she did, yet he still expected dinner to be hot on the table as soon as she arrived, if not beforehand. She was to her wit's end with Bernie; one more annoying remark, despite its degree, and she knew she'd go bonkers.

Liz fumbled at the door with her keys. They'd gotten slippery in the rain outside, and she spent a good minute just trying to get the door open. The first thing she saw as she entered the stale-smelling apartment was Bernie, on the couch, watching the baseball game, drinking and popping his gum. That was another thing of Bernie's that drove her next-to-crazy: he was obsessed with popping his gum. If there was only one thing in the world she could get rid of, including her boss and lousy tippers, it was gum.

"Didn't y' hear me?" Liz asked Bernie, irritated at his lazy state.

"Yeah." He kept his eyes on the game, popping in between breaths.

She shrugged out of her drenched rain coat. "…Well?"

"Well what?" Pop.

She sighed heavily. "Well, didn't you want to help me out any?"

"Oh." Pop. "I thought you could get it. Hey, could you make me a steak? I'm starvin'." Pop.

This sound, the kind that grates on your ears every time you hear it, was the last grain of sand in Liz's hourglass, draining her mind of sanity.

She narrowed her eyes on Bernie and said, in a demonic tone, "She, Bern; you'll get it in just a minute." She dropped her purse and slicker and walked behind Bernie to the fake fireplace, reaching up and retrieving her father's old shotgun off the wall. She checked it to make sure the cartridges were in the barrels. Bernie stopped popping and turned his head towards Liz.

"Liz, honey, what are y' doin'?"

"POP."

"Liz…."

"What's the matter, Bernie? Cat got y'ur gum?"

"Liz, you don't want to do this. You'll go to jail. I love y', baby."

"POP."

She fired the first shot on his forehead, above his left eye. He staggered back, his mouth wide open, falling against the television, gum tumbling out. The game was still roaring in the background. The pitcher, blurred by Liz's raging vision, spat out his wad of tobacco before winding up for a curve ball.

"POP," she repeated, plugging the second cartridge into his mouth, replacing the gum.

Then she opened her own mouth wide, shocked at her actions. "Bernie…." Her arms dropped to her side, the gun falling to the floor. She stood there for a moment before turning slowly and walking over to the kitchen, opening a drawer, pulling out Bernie's last piece of gum. She was sure someone had heard the gunshots and called the cops…probably Mrs. Lubowski next door, an old bat who couldn't hear what you said, but if you so much as slammed a cabinet door, she was banging on the wall with her broomstick.

Liz slowly chewed the gum, stopping every few seconds to let out a large pop.