by Derek GRAY

He stares at his re­flec­tion, con­scious­ly cock­ing his right hip to mir­ror Warhol’s triple-ex­po­sure paint­ing of Elvis. He puts his hands in the pock­ets of his 501s, curls the small­est of his dig­its to form guns with each hand, then draws, tak­ing note of what he sees. An un­con­scious ex­ten­sion of his el­bow, a spot of tar­nish on his vin­tage belt buck­le. He fo­cus­es his at­ten­tion on his belt, shifts his weight to his left leg, then lets out a faint gasp as he no­tices the minute elon­ga­tion of each of the tiny voids punched, dot ma­trix pat­tern, in­to the white leather. He sizes up his ri­val, snarls in time with his op­po­nent. He points his six-shoot­er be­tween the glassy brown eyes in mir­ror, paus­es for ef­fect though he’s the on­ly spec­ta­tor, then pulls the trigger.

Filed under Fiction on August 14th, 2003

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