I didn’t load it. I nearly did. I wonder if she’d have shed a tear? The 12 gauge slug would’ve gone right through. Destroying everything. I practiced aiming it between my nose and upper lip. My arms are long enough to reach the trigger. I doubt she would’ve cared… probably about the mess in our yard. Probably would’ve still went to work. Her fear of being fired outweighs all other considerations. Her rushes to the shower after work. Her… coldness. I’ve fished on the Bering Sea in January and felt warmer. I didn’t load it. I didn’t want her to finish the project so many went out of their way to contribute; my suicide.

There’s a reason that love and romance are only described in fiction. And that’s because it, too is fiction. It’s a done deal when you get nothing but complaints for a hug, or a kind word. She hates me that much. All I tried to do is be honest. Of course she weaponized it. Now she uses her job as a way to get out of any of it. Anything that has to do with me. Yet I still do all the things I thought were special to her, returned to me with indifference or contempt.

I didn’t load it. Becuase someone would have to clean it up. Someone would have to lift my lifeless, disgusting fat body and zip it up. Someone might even perform an autopsy and have to look at me.

I didn’t load it. Because maybe tomorrow she’ll warm up a little. Maybe for a minute. Maybe she’ll look at me for a second with love in her eyes.

I didn’t load it. Because I’m a coward.

I didn’t load it.

Tomorrow I might.