Concealed Carry

by Rebecca Rothenberg

His eyes above the mask looked past me toward the bags of kale in the Walmart produce section. His presence was out of context; he lived one town over, and I’d gone to him for concealed carry class and then informal shooting lessons at an indoor range. I only recognized him, on my way out of the store after he passed, by his crew cut and his height, which I remembered as identical to mine when I’d hugged his solid form in friendship upon greeting and his hands moved down my back, touched my ass, and ran up my sides, quicker than I could pull back, in his darkened Taekwondo - concealed carry class studio. It must have been his idea for a rendezvous, with his wife in the house across the gravel drive, and three boxer dogs, so much like him, ignored and caged, as they stood atop their doghouse inside the 8’x12’ chainlink pen, growling and yipping at me as I went by and turned the studio door knob. I looked back at him in the produce aisle and noticed he wore his mask below his nose, fitting somehow for a cop who didn’t follow the rules, but the best damn marksman I’d ever met, aside from the man who’d brought us together, his student in both Taekwondo and SWAT, but who wanted me only in bed. I’m not a cheater, no skin off my nose for those who do, so I’d gently moved his arms and pulled back, outside the kiss zone, and said, can you show me how to hold my Glock and fire practice rounds, but, as it turned out, that was not enough for him.

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Rebecca Rothenberg, a writer, editor and consultant, is also a Forest Landscape Ecologist.