When the gun caught her eye, Talia was brushing her long amber hair, sitting unblushingly naked in the Lotus position, a willowy Buddha on the bed.  James’s nightstand drawer was slightly ajar and she could see the crosshatch of the wooden grip. She was seized by the urge to touch it.  The water was still running in the bathroom; he was still in the shower.  She reached into the drawer and pulled out the snub-nosed revolver.  It was light — only a  pound, pound and a half — but she could see it was loaded and the danger gave it heft.  James had taken her to the shooting range a few times so the feel of the grip wasn’t completely foreign.  She thought he’d called it a .38 Chief’s Special but she wasn’t sure.  She sighted out the window and a shiver ran up her spine.  A little fear, a little thrill.

            She heard the shower door open.  As she put the gun back in the drawer, she noticed something else.  The box of Trojans they’d opened six months ago then decided not to use.  She had yet to get pregnant, but they were trying.  Why did he still have the condoms?  She reached for the box and dumped the contents on the bed.  That’s when James stepped out of the bathroom. 

            He was in his boxers, toweling his hair, his broad torso slack, tanned and damp. His blue eyes clouded over when he saw the square packets.  “What are you doing?”

            “Nothing,” she said. 

            “You’re counting those.”

            “It’s nothing.  I was just, you know, curious.”

            She saw his neck start to redden, the color blooming toward his face, a thermometer rising.

            “Did you find any missing?” More an accusation than a question.