It was 2 am. He was still holding the 38 revolver like a handful of popcorn when she slammed the door. The lock snapped like jaws closing. From the bar, he could hear a fiery gypsy guitar and a locomotive bass swinging hard, the heartfelt ache of the violin, the drummer's deep groove, and then a voice like distilled honey. The music soothed his ragged nerves like the first bourbon after a stretch in Folsom. Cold black metal clanged to the floor. The singer's words ran like spring water in his veins
- "Until you will, how still my heart, how high the moon."
He turned toward the door... and a long night of poker. Maybe he could still get lucky.
