The weapon creases the flesh of her temple as a devious smile plays across her face. Three consecutive clicks resound from the revolver, the sound bounces off the walls and into my ears. She slowly lays the gun on the table between us while her eyes coerce me to engage. I reach forward and she catapults herself toward me. Her soft hands clasp the back of my neck and she pulls me into a violent kiss. Or maybe it's just passionate, there's no way for me know for sure. My mind's enraptured by lascivious thoughts and a carnal tingle raging through my body. It occurs to me that there should be something more than this shallow alleviation; but for now, this will have to do.

She releases hold of me and her dark brown eyes guide me toward the gun. I take up the cold steel and give the chamber a quick spin, the vibration radiates up my arm. Such a nice place to make a huge mess. A warm living room with large windows and a skyline view of the city. The emerald curtains cascade down to the window pane, leading the casual peruser to the contrasting carpet in the middle of the room. A lone black micro fiber couch sits just pass a small coffee table; and beyond that, a medium speaker mounted to the wall. Above that, a sleek big screen television as the centerpiece of the room.

There's been worse places to have died. Without hesitation I place the cold barrel at the edge of my tongue then pull the trigger three times, but I'm still here. We exchange a mutually look of dissension. She shakes her head at me. "Don't," she pleads. Peace of mind finds me as three more vibratory clicks echo through my head. Yet, still nothing, or rather, still something. My companion anxiously snatches the gun from me and slams it on the table. I throw a grin her way, and she collapses emphatically back into her chair.

"That's not funny," she says.
I lean into the table, "Humor is subjective," I reply.
"Do you have a death wish?" she asks.
"Depends," I answer.
"Depends..." she repeats, walking away from the table and into the kitchen.
I follow closely behind, then prop myself up on the fridge. "I wouldn't say I wish for it, but you can never be too prepared," I say.
"Well then—" she whispers, as she leans toward me. "I'd say that you're over prepared." She pulls away then slowly exits the kitchen.

Our eyes lock before she glances over her shoulder and ventures into the living room. She falls backward into the couch cushion and disappears from my line of sight. Extending her hands up toward the ceiling she beckons me. The edge of the couch awaits me, so I take my place. Her feet drop onto my lap, a minor irritation; but time has made me more amenable to her quirks, like affection. Her intent became clear with the emergence of her coy smirk.

She stares at me as though there is something to discover. I don't like being stared at, but she keeps doing it, fully aware of how annoying I find the behavior. It's as though she's waiting for me to say something profound. Like she believes there's more of me to reveal; and maybe, if she stares long enough, it will come to her. Why does she want to know more? Great— now she's nudging me with her foot.

I grab hold of her big toe. "What is it?" I ask.
"Whatcha thinkin about?" she ask.
I knew it! I release her foot. "I was thinking that you were wondering what I was thinking," I answer.
"Do you wanna know what I was thinking?" she asks.
"No—" I reply abruptly, because honestly I don't want to know. "But you're gonna tell me anyway."
She smiles and sits upright. "I think you do have a death wish. Especially after witnessing that reckless stunt."
I shorten the space between us and I reply, "No stunt— I just knew there weren't any bullets in the gun."
"You couldn't know that for sure," she replies, "I'm the one who loaded it." She tightens the already slim distance between us leaving our lips inches apart.

I stand up from the couch and walk back into the kitchen. Her eyes focus on me, curiosity exuding from her posture. Maybe the beer I just took from the fridge will help her relax. I tilt the beer in her direction but she rolls her eyes at the gesture. She watches intently as I return to my seat. I take the bottle to my lips and make a show of savoring every sip. From the corner of my eye I watch her shoot up to leave, but I grab hold of her arm and ease her back down.

"Okay," I say.
"Are you really going tell me?" she asks, "because if not..." She stands to her feet again, and I gently restrain her again.
"Root, you may be crazy enough to kill yourself— but you'd never let me."
She tilts her head. "It's cute how well you think you know me," she says.
I lean over and whisper in her ear, "I know enough."

The chime of the wall clock interrupts our moment. She's appears more annoyed by the sound then I am. The jarring alarm stands as a constant reminder of the brevity of our quality time. We sit back onto the couch and listen while the music plays out. She holds me tight, "So how long do we have tonight?" she asks.
"Who knows," I answer.

She kisses me with a certainty that tomorrow is not promised. Grand devotions fall seamlessly from her lips. Her every word I retain to memory, yet have no pragmatic need for them. But later when I'm alone, I will revisit this moment and find solace in it, no matter how artificial. She's staring in my eyes when the bright white light engulfs us. But for me the light fades away, and all that is left is darkness.


An aggressive bang and incessant barking supplants the stillness in my mind. I feel a warm moist licking arise on the back of my hand. A quick shake of the limb brings the sensation to a halt, but the banging only grows louder. The muffled sound of my name echoes in my ears. As the haze lifts from my vision, I steadily arise from the chair. Bear, the ever loyal German Shepherd, and my constant companion is at my side. He stares as though I've done something wrong. I disregard the adamant knocking, choosing instead to feed my four legged dependent. The unabating knocking is already too much; but making it worse, the shouting of my name.

"Shaw it's me Fusco! Shaw open the door!"
I swing the door open; and there he is, sweat glistening from his forehead. He's got on the same brown suit, white collar shirt, stale shoes, and tedious tie. Same as every time I see him. Fusco always keeps you wondering: is this the same suit, or does he just have multiple pairs? But who am I to judge. I wear the same black tights and shirt everyday, and I can't recall if I've bathe today. But from the contorted expression on my guest's face, I surmise that I may have skipped the task.

"What are you doing here Lionel?" I ask.
"Good Evening to you too sunshine," he says, passing along a greasy paper bag.
"What's this?" I ask.
"Your favorite sandwich," he answers.
"Parks Deli?" I ask.
A wry expression comes across his face. "No," he answers.
I place the bag on the kitchen table, "So... not my favorite sandwich."
"Practically the same," he says, while indiscreetly scanning my apartment.

He fixates on the simulator headset that I left on the chair. I shuffle it from his view, then place it inside the protective lock box on a nearby shelf. He observes silently as a look of pity comes across his face. Bear nuzzles against his leg, and Lionel greets him with a pat on the head. At least someone is happy to see him.

"I see you still got that thing," he says.
"A parting gift from Samaritan, especially for me," I reply.
"Didn't they use that thing to torture you?" he asks, "and you wanna keep it around?"
I sit back in my chair, "Sentimental value," I tell him.
He glances at my twelve-inch table with its lone chair and piles of paper laying atop it. "I'm gonna just cut to the chase," he says. "I need your help on a case," he tells me, staring directly in my eyes.
"I don't do that anymore," I remind him.
"I know. But I figure... what else are you doin?" he says.
"Anything other than what it wants me to," I answer.
"I'm asking for your help. Not the Machine," he says.

He doesn't seem to understand that this is no longer my duty. I refuse to help because I simply have no interest. These types of request cannot become a regular thing. Can't have the Machine getting in contact with me again. This tiny nook on the lower east side is a sanctuary from surveillance. I've gone without any means of electronic communication for some time. It's been almost a year since the Machine's last attempt to contact me, and I've gotten use to my routine. I don't need this.

"Really—" I respond, "one of your own cases?" I ask.
He shrugs, "It's my case but yes, the Machine bought it to me."
I gesture toward the door then swing it open. "You already know my answer," I reply.
He stalls at the threshold then he turns toward me. "Look— I know I'm not exactly the ideal partner but I'm the one you got. And after these past few years I just thought you'd be there the one time I asked."

I shut the door behind him. By now Lionel knows I don't subscribe to guilt. However, his point is valid. He is the only one left, other than Bear. And when I asked that he stop hand delivering messages to me on the behest of the Machine, he complied. Maybe that counts for something. He left the sandwich, fortunate for me, because I can feel my stomach beginning to implode. I open the paper bag to find a dossier sitting on the top of my food. A peek won't hurt, he'll just owe me.