#very subtle

"maybe he got hurt"

"he didn't."

"maybe he's sick"

"he's not."

Curly is still. Stone in the shuttered, darkened window of the empty storefront. The police lights cut through the blinds, cast dark, even slices of shadow over his brow.

He's not marble. He's fuckin asphalt. He's cement that bears the name of every greaser kid quick enough to carve their names into. He's that weather-beaten ol angel in front of the church Pony's mama took him to when he was lil.

It had fallen. Last August, with the final tornado of the season. Heavy-handed fuckin symbolism.

A cop's voice comes from outside. Garbled n lost cause it doesn't matter. Curly turns, his eyes are dark. He's decided somethin. Made his mind up. N god knows Pony could never change it. Had wasted years n breath n love tryin to rewrite what had already been written.

Curly raises the gun. N Pony thinks of Dallas Winston. In the fall a lifetime ago. But Curly's hand doesn't shake. Doesn't tremble. Holds still n sure n rueful half shadow.

There's another difference there. To Dallas. His gun had been empty. Curly's is not.

He smiles. N it is a mourners smile. A Shepard's smile. One that has been grievin since they came bloody n fightin into this world knowin they'd go out of it the same way.

"I've never been good with words, Pony." Pony almost misses it. The dry rasp of his voice like a snake in the tall, dyin grass of autumn. Like the sound that beater they'd stolen when they were young enough trouble came easy n quick n slid off their backs like water made as it died. Like a gun as it cocked.

"I'm sorry."

He raised the gun. Framed in that crazed, flashin light like a hood in those movies they stopped makin back when Pony was still in school.