Shaking hands.
He presses the barrel against the side of his head. There’s just the one bullet, and that’s good because he only really needs just one.
His pores sweat; one drop drips onto his shirt and creates the only perfect circle he’s ever really noticed. His pupils dilate for a second; then retract.
He’s left the note on the refrigerator. What will they think?
He shuts his eyes, and sees a marriage, children, a legacy.
He hastily puts the gun away and rushes to the kitchen. He tears the note into pieces and throws it in the trash.
He’d almost gone Hemingway. He chuckles at the thought. And then his shaking knees give way and he vomits.
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