Laughing—or trying not to—she falls.
A hand moves to her brow in desperate melodrama. Her eyes flutter once, for just a moment a portrait of life letting slip its grasp. Then they are only milky, dead orbs hidden under delicate lids. Taking that for my cue, I turn my weapon on myself and crumple beside her on the dusty linoleum. Blinking halogen embraces both of us, and an air conditioner hums out an indifferent requiem for two.
Then we rise, but not fully. An elbow, or a knee, props up a face that searches for its counterpart as if to ensure that the illusion wasn’t anything more. We both laugh. Death departs, defeated again by reality. We’ve broken our act, now, but our bodies are uninformed; they sprawl still in imitation of tragic lovers on the filthy floor.