The men returned somberly to her table;
they’d leave to dying chance her mute affections.
The one who’d seen her first had choice of arms—
with deference & calm he chose the latter’s.
The gun slipped from its holster to the table—
no more noise than setting down a glass.
She performed the honors:
flicked the cylinder open with her wrist,
chambered lead by late-admirer offered,
spun the drum with force & watched it slow,
locked it into place.
The metal slithered cross the table spinning;
no clock would turn such heavy, merciless time.
The gentle breath of Fate blew soft, then stopped—
the barrel pointed resolute & sure.
“Madam, for your love,” the former spoke,
“I die one time in six”—the hammer fell.
The gun changed hands, the ritual repeated.
Revolver’s rattle five times spared its fangs;
the latter longing-gazed into her eyes.
“Madam, for your love, one time in one.”