I hold it in my hand, feel its compact, substantial weight, and marvel at the mechanical precision. I insert a single bullet, my only bullet, and spin the cylinder. I listen to it purr, and when it stops, I pull back the hammer; the cylinder locks with a loud click. But I don’t know where the bullet is, so release the hammer and ease it back into place, and set the piece on the table.
I pick up instead the sliver of carbon-tempered menace by its walnut handle, admire its balance, the precision of its edge, so lethal a mere thought could move it through flesh. I sharpen it nonetheless, push it lovingly across the stone, the rhythmic act a meditation.
I stand at the far end of the platform, where the train enters the station, only beginning to slow. I toe the edge, well inside the yellow warning strip, close my eyes and the train rush by as if it’s nothing but hot wind.
I cannot reach the edge at the top of the tower that houses my office, but he wind here is cooler, stronger, and unrelenting. I sense I would fly for a time, fly across the seemingly endless sea of light that must, from space, appear as an incandescent stain.