I Couldn't Take My Eyes Off It - Bonnie Smetts

I can’t take my eyes off the gun. I see guns every single day except Saturday and Sunday. But those are tucked into the holsters of the deputies, the bailiffs, people who wear pressed uniforms and hopefully I can trust. I don’t trust Roy, not any more.

“Roy, what the hell are you doing with a gun?” I’m nervous.

“You never know, I never know now,” he says.

“Roy, I don’t think they’d be too happy to know you got a gun on your table, with you already being accused of killing a dog.” I’m saying the obvious, but doing that is like talking to Roy with the sound off.

“Since when do you know so much? This court recording business has gone to your head,” he says. Sometimes I hate this man. Sometimes I can’t imagine that ever felt anything for him.

“Have it your way, Roy, but you’re just playing with fire. The gun, the trouble you’re in now.” Again, I’m saying the obvious. “I’m gonna go. I got stuff to do today.”

“Baby, don’t go,” he says. Calling me baby is worse than using handcuffs.

“That’s not gonna work today, Roy. I got stuff to do. I told Randy I’d help her set up her shop. Her husband’s finished building with the second room,” I say.

“And Randy’s more important than me?” Hostage.

“Roy, I said I’d come visit. I’m here, we visited. And now I gotta go. OK?” I’m not really asking if it’s OK. But Roy’s got a way of looking so sad, so pitiful when he wants to. I can’t look.

“See you next week,” not really thinking about whether that’s true or not. It just leaves him with a bit of hope so he lets me go.

I don’t look back, I just let the door close as softly as I can. I can’t look at that face, pleading me to stay. Only because he wants someone warm sitting next to him. I feel sick all the way back to town.