Mr and Mrs Evans ✔

Chris

Sebastian is kind of slow on some things, but that night he was quick on the trigger in advising me.

After hearing the whole story in detail, he repeated "I told you so" a million times (okay, I had earned it) and then sentenced: - Erase the woman.

I listened to that, still huffing with rage, and immediately realized there was nothing else to do.

- That's right. You're absolutely right. I'll erase the bitch.” I punched the air for emphasis.

"That's the way of speaking, buddy," Sebastian said. “Now you're thinking with your head.

It took a jar of crackers, a slice of nearly rotten cheddar cheese, and an open jar of mustard to get an automatic pistol off the kitchen counter. For the first time in my life, I was glad Sebs was so sloppy.

"I'll borrow this here, will you?"

Sebs nodded, quite naturally, as if I'd asked him to smoke a cigarette.

Gun in hand and high on adrenaline, I burst out the door.

"Macho paca" terminator going on a mission... to kill his own woman.

But something in the cool night air seemed to tell me, "Hold on, man."

Maybe it was the stars. Maybe it was the schizophrenic voices in my head.

One way or another, he couldn't find the strength to cross Sebastian's garden. I just stood there, as if I had been cornered by some sort of psychological electric fence.

I was tired. Yeah, that was it, I was tired.

Resigned, I went back to the house and went inside.

“It's four in the morning,” I explained to Sebastian. “Tomorrow I'll finish her off.

“Okay, okay,” he agreed, “tomorrow you finish her off. It's late. He took the gun from my hands. 'Do you want to sleep here?'

I thought about saying, "No, I'm going to sleep at home," but I soon realized that I didn't have a home to go to anymore.

So I accepted Sebastian's invitation.

Suddenly overcome with physical and mental exhaustion, I threw myself on a shabby little sofa in the living room, too small for me to fit completely. Stan picked up a blanket, a child's blanket, embroidered with kittens and various rainbows. I assumed it had been his one day, as I noticed my friend was a little reluctant before handing it over.

“Good night, Sebs,” I said, passing out right away.

“Good night, Chris,” he said.

Only then did he drop the blanket and turn off the lights.

Lying there—the blanket covering only half of my body—I was struggling to find a comfortable position when I felt a lump under my head.

I slipped my hand under the pillow and began to grope. I finally found a .45 automatic, nestled under the sofa cushion. Ah, Stan... as my mother used to say, the only reason he didn't lose his mind was because it was glued to his neck. Yawning, I dropped the gun to the floor and then tried to give myself up to sleep.

"Tomorrow", I promised myself, "tomorrow I'll take care of everything".