Yes or No

The ceiling blurred, then narrowed to a black circle.

Not a circle. A pupil. Unblinking.

Steel hovered inches above my face. Oiled. Light skimming the rim. The hollow center swallowed what stood behind it. My lungs stalled.

A woman’s voice dropped through the barrel, warped and enormous. “Was the affair worth it?”

Air scraped. Nothing came out.

“Was it worth it, sleeping with my husband? Yes or no?”

Memory fired like bad wiring. Thursday. Overnight bag. The way he buttoned his shirt in the dark, always gone before morning.

The barrel didn’t blink.

If I gave yes, the trigger would tighten.

If I gave her no, she’d pocket my shame and pull anyway.

No good doors. Only different exits.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I worked it free. “That depends.”

A sound rolled out of her, low and animal. The muzzle dipped closer, the dark circle drinking the light. “On what?”

If he lay beside me on Thursday, whose sheets held Friday?

“On how many of us you plan to kill.”

The barrel didn’t move.

He kept Friday for someone. He always kept Friday. I pulled air past the choke in my throat. “Because I’m not the only one.”

Her eyes refocused, cutting past me. Calculation tightened her mouth.

“Tell me everything.”

BIO: Alaska/Washington author Lynne Curry—nominated for the 2025 Best of the Net Anthology, the 2024 Pushcart Prize and Best Microfiction—founded “Real-life Writing,” https://bit.ly/45lNbVo and publishes a monthly “Writing from the Cabin” blog, https://bit.ly/3tazJpW and a weekly “dear Abby of the workplace” newspaper column. Curry has published twenty-three short stories; seven poems; two articles on writing craft, and six books.