Good Seeing You Again

"My name is Rich Leavitt, and I did not kill myself," I mutter, staring into the mirror. "My name is Rich Leavitt, and I did not kill myself."

I reach for the plastic cold water knob, turn it to full on and dip wavering cupped hands under the chilly stream. A few splashes to my face do nothing to wake me, but my mind takes comfort in knowing that I have at least tried. Now that I think of it, the water doesn't feel cold at all. Lukewarm, maybe? I run a hand under the stream again, this time observing the temperature and not just assuming that because I turned the cold knob that it would produce cold water.

No, still warm.

Confused, I check the knob again for the letter C. Living in this house for nearly fifteen years with my wife, it's pure habit to twist this knob when I want cold. The other knob when I want hot. A happy medium between the two if I want warm. I've done it a thousand times, but find myself second guessing.

Hot on the left, cold on the right. This confirms that I had chosen the correct knob. But the water still didn't run cold.

"Fuck it," I say aloud to my reflection, shutting the water off. "My name is Rich Leavitt, and I did not kill myself." I wanted to. I stood in this very mirror with the cold steel barrel of a .40 caliber revolver against my right temple. The hammer was pulled back; I remember the click as it set. The gun was ready and willing to paint an abstract work of art on the wall to my left consisting of brain matter on a crimson backdrop. But then my wife, Claire, walked in. Things get a bit fuzzy in that moment, though. It's as though I were inebriated enough to black out just then, erasing those memories. Or maybe they're tucked somewhere deep down inside, sealed in a box whose lock is strong and the key has been tossed away. I can see it though. I know my wife well enough to create the scene without being there.

She would first hold a hand up to her mouth and gasp, and then, "Rich, what are you doing?"

I'll drop the gun to my side, more embarrassed by the fact that I forgot to lock the door than her catching me moments from taking my life. I picture the mess that would have been left for her to clean up. "I'm...nothing dear. I'm just screwing around."

"With a gun to your temple?" Her voice would rise in pitch. She would be angered by what she witnessed, but afraid to display such emotions as it may press me to revisit the idea in an instant. She would be too scared to approach me at first, and for the same reason.

"It's stupid," I would say. "I'm embarrassed. Let's just call it a Dirty Harry moment."

"I'm quite sure Dirty Harry didn't shoot himself in the head, Rich." She would place the back of her hand on her forehead, looking at the floor. "Did he even consider it?" A large sigh escapes her.

I would continue to talk myself out of this interesting - or not so interesting, depending on who you're talking to - situation and put the gun away. She would insist that I trash the ammunition and see someone about my problems. It would turn into a small argument about money before we both lay in bed, attempting slumber.

Money is the problem, too. It's never about Claire and I. Our marriage is great. When we do argue about money, it's more because I'm pissed off about not being able to pay for this, or not having enough money for that. Being the sole breadwinner in the house, I take pride in my accomplishments. No kids, married to my high school sweetheart, working for a decent wage that doesn't require a second income. But lately money has been tight. The bills are on the rise, the cost of living increases by the minute, my income seems to have hit the ceiling and there isn't another goddamn job out there that produces an inkling of interest from me. So I continue down the same road. No forks, no hard left or right. Straight down the same one lane road that, unfortunate for us, seems to be a dead end.