I guess you’ll buy a gun. You’ll drive us into the desert, spray bullet-pat- terns on a stray concrete wall and tell me, “Guess what animal.”
And I’ll say, “Zebra,” because I think I see stripes, but I’ll be wrong, like always. “Guess again.”
And I’ll say, “Leopard,” because that’s the design you have tattooed on your shoulder, and you’ll smile self-consciously and shift the strap so I can see.
You’ve been shooting out here for hours. Your skin glows.
You’ll sit down on a charred log, the rifle in your lap. I’ll wish I was behind you. You’ll squint up at me through the sun. “Aren’t you gonna sit?”
Around us, nothing but sand and debris. I’ll reply, “So, what, are you like a guerilla now?”
I’ll imagine you baring your teeth in response, but actually you’ll just smile and shrug like you couldn’t give a fuck either way. “I guess. I mean, what do you want me to be?”
I’ll shrug too. I’ve never been good at answering these kinds of questions, and it’s easier to mimic.
You’ll stand up, take careful aim, and fire at the wall again. Halfway through, you’ll pause to put in a new magazine. When you finish, you’ll step back. “Guess.”
This time, the shape will be obvious.