Damp Hands

She pressed the gun against his forehead and fired again. She had to be sure. She stood crying, sinking into the jacket she wore. It was his. It still had the smell of coconut hair pomade on the collar. She pressed the gun into the roof of her mouth. She took her eyes off the bite marks on his shoulder and arm. The boat tipped, rotten, bloated hands emerging from the water. A last shot.

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