“You ever shoot a pistol?” she asked me.
I shook my head.
Nodding, she removed a pistol from the case. In seconds, she had it completely loaded.
“I come out here when I need to work throughsomething. Or when I just want a spot to myself. Shooting is a good way to feel in control again.”
“And you thought this might make me feel in control again?” I asked in confusion.
She shrugged. “Maybe. Earplugs in. Eyewear on.”
Once we were protected, she turned to face the target. She lifted the pistol, held it steady, and fired.
Her aim was impressive—she hit the bullseye four times out of fifteen rounds, and the rest were close.
She shot until the pistol slide locked back.
“You want to fire it?” she asked, setting the pistol onto the table.
“Not really . . . no,” I said.
She nodded. “That’s why you should. Just one round, yeah? I’ll even load it for you.”
“Okay.”
We swapped places after she loaded exactly one round into the pistol and then she guided me on how to hold it with authoritative care.
My heart thudded in my ears as I lifted the pistol and aimed it at the target.
I pulled the trigger, feeling resistance.
I squeezed slowly and then a bit harder.
It fired and kicked in my hand.
My palm buzzed from the force of it.
I lowered the pistol to the table with the slide locked back.
My breathing went from slow and steady to rapid. I placed a hand on my chest and began to rub my sternum.
“You’re okay,” Muddy said, her voice a low murmur due to the ear protection I still wore.
I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. Emotion moved through my rib cage and up my throat. My eyes started to burn with the need to cry.
So, I cried.
Muddy stood by and watched, her face etched with understanding.
Once my blubbering was under control, I said, “I wasn’t expecting that. I don’t like it.”
“I know.”
I took a few deep breaths and eventually hog-tied my emotions. And then something stirred in me. “Can I fire another round?”
Her lips turned up into a smile and she nodded. “Can I make a suggestion?”
“What’s that?”
