The Dancer: short fiction

The Dancer
by Brian James Spies
The metal of the gun had a cold dull colour to it, no sheen, or polish to be found. As he pointed it at me, he trembled. Martin again flashed his brass knuckles as if to say he had my back. Whom was he kidding, brass knuckles don’t mean shit against a loaded handgun; if it was even loaded, not that I could know or even wanted to find out. I acted in a manner as to convey fearless abandon, but was really just self-destructive aggression. “What are you waiting for” I raged. “Pull the trigger, be a man… I don’t want to live anyway.” With cool detachment I said, “You be doing me a favour.” This dance continued, me challenging him to do something that I hoped I was right in believing he didn’t possess the courage or stupidity to actually do. I don’t know how long we went on like that. At times, when I think back, it seems likes it couldn’t have been more than a minute. But then, there are times, often late at night when it seems we are still dancing that dance even today.