Trigger

He felt hot for some reason, almost feverish. Beads of perspiration ran down his unclothed body. A breeze from the bedroom window chilled him. Outside a bird woke up and chirped.

The gun, new and unfamiliar, rested on his lap. The metallic cold transferred to his hands as he picked it up and examined it. He shook uncontrollably but not from the temperature. He released the magazine. There were two rounds--one more than he needed. He placed the gun next to him on the bed and sat at the edge. There was a call to make.

She picked up after the first ring.

"Hello?" she said.

Struck with cottonmouth, he could not manage to say anything but a wheeze that escaped. He pressed the phone against his head in anguish. There were so many things to be said, but even now he couldn't do it. A tear slid down his cheek and then his chest, co-mingling with sweat.

"Hello?" she said again, this time muffled with the phone still pressed to his head.

Then the line went dead. She had hung up.

He thought about calling her again, but he knew it wouldn't change anything. There was so much to say that he'd never be able to get it all out in the time of a phone call. He picked up the gun and put the phone in its place.

He clicked off the safety and pulled the slide back to chamber the round. The sound of the metal slide was loud in the dark, quiet room. Outside, the bird kept chirping.