Gunshot

"No thank you, I'm full." Is a gunshot in the air.

My ears ring, tongue licking lips to clear them of the gunpowder.

The duellists beneath this yellow lighting- a ninety-one year old immigrant grandmother, and a thirty-something girlfriend.

I watch, my eyelids peeled against my will (my torturer; the grip of familial penchant for drama).

My grandmother grins. All rates-ratus (grab a pipe, or a glass of wine)

"Ai-th-ee, please see this whorish-mule of a woman out."

She says to my brother; the boyfriend.

Shotgun shells litter the floor as she pushes her chair back, and disappears to pray.