[Roger Slater]

Amanda pulled a gun and pointed it at my head, which only that morning had been trimmed by Tommy, my barber for the past six years ever since Carlo moved back to Italy. Tommy did a pretty good job. He was a dollar cheaper than Carlo, and almost as skillful, but I missed Carlo's selection of pretty women cut from magazines and scotch-taped to the periphery of his mirror. Tommy had his own pictures, but he favored older models with red hair, while Carlo went for younger blondes. Amanda was wearing a green blouse with yellow buttons. It was Tuesday. The gun clicked as Amanda squeezed the trigger. I could still taste the poppy bagel I had eaten for breakfast one hour earlier, but only because the deli had run out of sesame bagels. The new clerk was apologetic and offered me a free coffee, which I declined because I do not like coffee. But now there was no time to think about such things. A fly crawled along the window sill. Amanda was musing out loud about the possibility of sending a bullet through my head. George Bush was president. It was sixty three degrees outside.