Just A Practice Run

He pretended to be asleep when his daughter looked in on him.

And then when he heard the two short honks she always gave before turning on the highway, he closed the open book laying on his lap and stood slowly, but with determination.  He showered and then shaved in the steamy bathroom. His Sunday suit, just pressed hung, behind the door.

He straightened his tie and a stray hair from his left eyebrow.

At the kitchen table, he poured himself three fingers of bourbon, sipping slow, letting it roll.

His service revolver resting to the right of the glass.


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