Clothes had piled up in the corner. Dishes unwashed. Carpet hadn’t been vacuumed in years. Cobwebs in corners. Tables with dust on them.

On the walls were spray painted stick figures in blue and red. One of the paintings was a man with a knife in his hand above his head. The other was a woman with a gun. Both taunting each other. No words written. Just man and woman threatening each other. No action. Just staring each other down. Waiting for the wrong move.

That’s how he remembered it. His wife with a gun and him with a knife he’d pulled from the drawer. He knew there was a bullet in the barrel. He put it there. Just one.

And he remembered the silence. Her creeping backward out the front door. She had the gun pointed the whole time. He saw her get in the truck and take off.

I loved that woman, he whispered. I loved that woman.