Short Story: Girlfriend With A Gun

Short Story: Girlfriend With A Gun

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

She’s already twenty five minutes late.

She informed me she keeps a gun beside the bed; a baseball bat by the front door.

“It’s just precautions.” She says. “I don’t intend to wind up dead.”

“What about walking the streets?”

She’s got a pepper spray she keeps in her bag, with a rape alarm strapped to her wrist.

“What about me?” I ask.

She gently smiles. “I can deal with you. It’s the unknown that will catch you out. I’ve seen enough movies that gave me the creeps.”

“You watch the wrong kind.” I suggest.

“Do I?” She smiles. “It’s how I intend to stay alive.”

She isn’t kooky or weird, just unpredictable.

“Last summer it was so hot at night I slept out on the balcony.” She says. “I bought one of those Japanese Futons, got a pillow and covered myself in a sheet. It was brilliant to be suspended a hundred and forty feet up in the air, with city streets below and me staring at the stars. Stars and fireflies,” She smiles. “I can still trace their outline in my mind.”

She isn’t really romantic. She’s got a brother in Afghanistan. He sends her letters and photographs. Last time he came home he brought a jagged lump of shrapnel along for the ride, an inch and a half in length, just missed his head. She doesn’t know if he shoots to kill; doesn’t ask.

She’s from a military family on the male side; father served in Vietnam, brother in the middle-east, two great uncles and a couple of grandfathers caught up in WW2. She can trace the line right back to before the Civil War. She’s got the Stars and Stripes emblazoned on her right shoulder, and a Deaths head on the left.

I ask what’s keeping her from joining up.

She’s not a great fan of ‘grunts’ as she calls them. Her brother brings his buddies in, they sit around drinking beer and telling tall tales she hopes are more fiction than reality. She retains a grudging respect for what they do, but refuses to sleep with any if they ask.

“Why me?” I quiz. “Why choose me?”

“You’re weak and feeble.” She grins. “I can push you around.”

I know she’s only joking; she is, isn’t she?

When I find her, she’s being entertained by buskers working a street audience for nickels and dimes. She drops a dollar bill into their cap, as they charm with pleasing banter, smiling back and basking in the warmth of mutual pleasure.

I take her hand. “Where have you been?”

“Why, am I late?”

She doesn’t make excuses or feel the need to explain; wearing the same dress I’ve seen her in before. Either she likes it, or can’t recall wearing it the last time we met. I must have said I liked it; I can’t recall myself.

There’s an indistinct perfume about her she carries like a charm, and told me once it had a foreign name but I’ve forgotten that too. She makes me weak and forgetful in her presence, that’s why I hold so tight onto her hand, as if she might wander away and leave me searching half the night to get her back again.

We eat at a Sushi place, drinking Japanese beer. She enjoys a bowl of noodles while I order fish swimming in a layer of chilli sauce. She say’s I’d better gargle before I kiss otherwise I’ll set her alight.

We go on to a movie theatre showing a retrospective of Woody Allen, settling for a double bill coupling Annie Hall with Manhattan. She loves the first, but finds the second unbelievable. I feel the need to argue the point, and we go into a bar where we talk for ages about likes and dislikes.

I’m invited home, but then can’t find a cab, eventually chasing the late night bus. It reminds her of childhood, she says, swinging her legs as if she was a kid again.

We’re talking too much and not really paying attention to what’s going on aboard the bus, but when there’s a commotion at the front I concentrate quickly enough. Two guys in ski masks are waving guns intending to rob the driver and passengers of cash and credit cards. I’m ashamed to say I feel paralysed, but not her. She’s on her feet immediately squirting pepper spray into their eyes, and as one of them falls makes a grab for the gun.

“No.” I cry.

The cops are crawling all over the scene.

“Don’t get so worked up.” She insists.

“You could have been killed.” I respond.

“No.” She smiles. “I was ready. It’s what I’ve been anticipating since I moved to the city.”

“You were mighty brave, but stupid.” A female cop puts in.

“Listen to her – please.” I implore.

It’s gone two am when they eventually let us go.

“Come on.” She insists, leading the way.

I wonder what I’m getting myself into, but fall into line as she hails a cruising cab.

“Now I can finally look my brother in the eye.” She grins.

It’s futile trying to protest so I shut up, allowing her hand to nestle in mine.

“What if they’d shot you?” I ask, calmer now.

“You’d be going home alone I expect.” She grins. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

A kind of ragged grimace settles over my face, but I don’t feel comfortable. I know her remark isn’t designed to intimidate, and she’s trying to make light of the situation. It’s the kind of woman she is, always on her guard, and maybe in the city that’s not such a bad thing. I remain uncertain, but as I glance at her there’s a steely determination in the look she returns.

“Am I staying over?” I ask.

She nods. “That’s what I find so appealing about you.” She smiles, placing her head upon my shoulder. “You have to ask. Any other man would have insisted.”

She’s a one off; girlfriend with a gun; and it’s not like it’s a movie or anything ephemeral. I pull her closer to feel the reality she contains and discover she’s quivering.

“What is it?” I ask. “I thought you weren’t afraid?”

“It’s not that - you’re the first man I’ve taken home.” She whispers. “What else do you expect?”

I want to laugh. I want to kiss her from head to toe. Instead I pull her closer; pull her into who I am. This is a moment to savour with true affection.

Everything that went before fades into insignificance.

© Desmond Kelly 16-18 & 23/4/2012