The gunman pulls the trigger, and it seems to William that he smells the sulphur before he hears the bang. This isn’t possible, but this is how he experiences it, in spite of science. He barely clocks the blood that appears in a wash on the shoulder of her blue uniform shirt; he is noticing instead her face, how it stretches and thins, as if the entry of a bullet into the closed system of her body is fundamentally changing her already. The late-coming sound feels loud in the small market. It starts a ringing in his ears. The child makes a noise and pushes his fact into William. The face feels wet, and the wetness is absorbed by William’s shirt, coming through the cloth to touch his skin.
– someone else’s love story by Joshilyn Jackson