Act I

We were in love. Hadn’t admitted it yet, but there it is.

I arrived late—that is, fashionable—for her party. Toured her apartment. Her highlight: Chekhov’s gun on the mantle. Framed certificate of authenticity just below.

Act II

Twice, we made eye contact across the crowded apartment. Smiled. Grinned, even.

In the kitchen, I brushed against her. Power drained throughout the apartment, all electricity rerouting to our touch.

At last, guests departed. I hid in the kitchen. She peeked in, crooked her finger. “Help with something?”

Act. III

My smile lit the apartment. I crept over, eager to “help.”

She aimed Chekhov’s gun. “Sorry,” she said, “I’m a writer.” I’m not a reader, so that explained nothing. Until she fired.