Triggerball

-1

“You got the stuff?”

It’s Saturday evening. Dusk. She’s walking toward me, carrying a duffle bag. The stuff. Light from the setting sun cast through thin gray cover makes dancing shadow puppets under her nose, her eyebrows.

"You ready?" Her voice is a ringing bell.

"I’m ready," I say. "Now’s as good a time as any."

Prison doesn't frighten me. Every day ordered, every activity scheduled.

I’ll like it there.

Doris is my accomplice. Her parents are divorced, her mother slips diet pills into her meals. I’ve known her since fourth grade. I’ve been to bed with her twice. I don’t know why she’s here today, to do this with me. Must have her own reasons.

She drops the bag at my feet, and pulls two masks from her vest. She yanks one down over her face, frizzled hair coming out the eye holes. Tosses me the other.

I unzip the bag and take inventory. Ten beer bottles filled with gasoline, many assorted strips of fabric, a crowbar, bolt cutters, matches. All there, everything that matters most right now.