Dead Eye Shot

I sighted her down. She saw the glint of my iron.

The hunt was on.

Dancing, weaving, striding bold through a wave of lying obstacles. Names. Hobbies. Noise. Bar lies. Easy words. We rushed through them, eye on eye, nose to ground, hunter and stag. I saw. She dodged and played. I pursued.

The first kiss was caustic, bitter like a sudden shot. First blood, one bullet and one horn, one sound in the great roar of noise. The rest of the world became secondary - follow the blood. Follow the mark of that clash, up my shirt, up her jeans, up our eyes. I had her in my sights.

She arched, majestic, eyes on mine as she rose and lifted her arms. There was a stark, defiant pride. I was the outsider. This was her little, quiet realm. I was the intruder, the civilized man. But first blood was marked. I could not be cruel.

I took the shot. One round. One release of breath. Dead on. Sound and vibration and wet, sudden contact. The wild was gone. Our skin was gone. We were one. We were linked and she was penetrated. I was whole.

It was over too achingly soon. The shot was not so true, too fleeting, a glance. She fled into the night. Full of pride, I said ill and easy things. It was dark. Those points were not so fine.

I was not in love with the shot. I would find another.

But every time I strode into that wild place, I smelled her in my gunpowder.