The silent parking lot is an expanse of moonless night. The thinning lines of snow glisten.
When I turn the man's bulky coat is haloed by the overheads as he shifts the wool open, going for the holster underneath his arm.
The three handles protruding from under his left arm announce: This is happening.
I don't have time to register the total absurdity of the tri-holster.
I only know that my eyes snap open and am staring at my husband's lidded REM flicker.
No comments:
Post a Comment