The Age of Zeus

"OK."

"I tried it too. Suicide. Just me, the bathroom mirror, and my Marine-issue pistol. After Ethan, every morning for about a month I'd stand at the sink and look at myself and put the barrel of a MEU(SOC). 45 in my mouth and almost nearly pull the trigger. Morning after morning. After a while, the taste of gunmetal and grease got so familiar, I couldn't get rid of it. There on my tongue the whole time. Everything I ate or drank seemed to have the tang of it. In the end, it started to make me feel sick. That was why I stopped wanting to blow my brains out, after a month of repeatedly trying to summon up the guts to and failing: I hated eating a breakfast that tasted of sidearm. It was a small thing, a stupid reason for going on living, but sometimes a stupid reason is enough, especially when the alternative is nothing. At least it's a reason."

"You chose to live because you like your food, is that what you're telling me?"

"I like my meals to taste like a meal should, hell yeah."

Sam couldn't keep a straight face, and didn't think she was meant to. "That is so a Rick Ramsay thing to do, go off the idea of suicide for your stomach's sake."

"Hey, never underestimate the power of the stomach. Or the tastebuds."

Their laughter dwindled into silence. The fire embered, the cicadas shook their maracas.

"See?" Ramsay said. "You've talked, and it hasn't made your head fall off or anything."

"And you haven't hit on me, either."

"So the worst didn't happen."

"Halleluiah."

Some time later, she stood up. "I'm going to turn in."

"I'm going to stay here a little longer. It's a nice night. The stars are pretty."

She touched his shoulder. "Thanks, Rick."

"All part of the service, ma'am."

She knew then that, at some point, she was going to sleep with this man.

But not tonight. That would be like giving the dog a treat as a reward for having nipped her finger.