I remember it as a snapshot. We were in the kitchen. I was making tomato sandwiches. When I turned around you were pointing a gun at me. The radio was on, humming softly, the uneaten sandwiches sitting like spectators watching a chess game. I was surrounded on three sides by the marble kitchen counter. You blocked the only space there was for me to walk away. Even staring at the barrel of a gun I was half in love with you. You. Staring at me. Not with hate, but with something else. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was love.
Writer, photographer, and retired teacher Ann Fischer lives in a Toronto Artscape community. Her writing appears in anthologies and literary magazines; her photos in galleries across Ontario.