The dress fit Julie like a tattoo.

She sat at the edge of the sofa. Gary’s sofa. Gary’s living room.

Gary.

The only light filtered through the curtains from a streetlight half-a-block away.

She smoothed the front of her dress. She tugged a little at the hem and it rode a bit higher on her leg, almost defying decency.

“Nothing could be further from the truth,” Gary said. “It’s never meant anything at all. I was hurting, am hurting, I needed reassurance that she’d, you’d, someone would be there for me.”

Julie was not moved, not moving. She was immovable. This time, she thought, like all the other times, if I give him an inch, he’ll forget to wake up and smell the coffee.

Except this time maybe he’ll not be waking up.

She reached into her purse, for the pistol. It was so real that she could feel its color in her hand.

It had a whaddya-call-it? A pulse.

What was she worried about?

Nothing.

Except a ricochet. As if that were likely with all the target practice she’d been taking.

Wait.

That wasn’t it. Not target practice. Anger management. That was what she was taking.

“I was sitting here all night Gary. I have a key. I know you and Lisa. . . ”

“Lori. . . ”

Hearing the name, the names, made Julie queasy.

A minute passed like a mirage.

Gary’s eyes got used to the dark. He saw the gun, a .22. He’d seen it before. He saw the dress.

That was new. Very new. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dress.

“The bullets are getting restless,” Julie said. Her voice was numb.

Gary looked as if he were pretending to be absentminded.

“It’s not loaded Julie. You don’t know how to load a dress.”

“A gun.”