True Love Never Did Run Smooth
I loved Adriana. Picturing her chocolate mane, blazing hazel eyes, and ruby mouth, I’d arrive at her apartment, heart galloping with anticipation. We’d grasp frantically, tumbling onto the floor as we caressed before I carried her to the bed where we’d make love as the setting sunlight poured through her bedroom window, giving her body a golden glow. We didn’t think about food until midnight.
Torrid months led to hints about commitment, which I deflected. My passive attitude was countered with random digs. Criticisms, I understood, which reflected her frustration, but, even so, the pressure made me uncomfortable.
Why did I cheat? Because a young, flirty thing gave me the eye? Subconsciously, did I want to punish Adriana for her jibes? Regardless, my ego trumped good judgment, and although I immediately regretted my decision, I had no “do-over” for a bad choice. My self-loathing made me careless, like I wanted to be punished. Adriana saw my lover’s explicit text and she exploded. I protested that a one-night stand meant nothing, but Adriana couldn’t be calmed. Vitriol spewed out of her. She accused me of crushing her feelings, then tossing her aside without conscience or regret.
The pistol she produced shocked me frozen, my attention riveted on a black-cavern barrel, my body becoming dank with putrid sweat. She held fire, and I hoped she was reconsidering, not enjoying my fear. I begged for mercy as my mind flipped through a rolodex of images, searching for words that would assuage her.
The sting of the gunshot burned, and I grasped my chest, my shirt slimy wet. Adriana’s hand caught a sob before she turned and ran. Collapsing to the ground, I lay in a copper-smelling pool of my own blood, staring at a cloudy sky, feeling my heartbeat in the wound, smelling asphalt and gun smoke.
I realized I was dying, and surprising thoughts of forgiveness entered my head. I cheated. Adriana felt deeply betrayed. Shooting me was justice.
She hadn’t dropped the pistol. There were no witnesses. She might be suspected, but if she kept her nerve, nothing could be proved, and she’d stay free. But she couldn’t just get on with her life. Killing me was a grave act. Her conscience would plague her, and her immortal soul was in jeopardy. If I really loved Adriana, I must give her the opportunity for repentance and redemption. As my life ebbed away, I panicked over how I could help her, until it came to me. The authorities would see to it. As an act of true love, I smeared my blood onto the sidewalk spelling the words, “Adriana killed me.”
Joe Giordano’s stories appeared in The Saturday Evening Post, and Shenandoah, plus his short story collection, Stories and Places I Remember. His novels include Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant Coming of Age Story, and the Anthony Provati thriller series: Appointment with ISIL, Drone Strike, and The Art of Revenge.
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