To be honest, I fell in love with her some time after I fell in love with her gun. When she pulled that pistol out of her sensible little handbag, time seemed to slow down, and all the world vanished except for its polished gray barrel and synthetic hand grips. As the moonlight swam down upon us, the night air seemed to whisper Remington.

I barely even noticed when she slammed my back against the wall. The stubby muzzle was in my face and all I could smell was the musk of oil and sulfur. Her words began to slowly drift in, but I was powerless in the face of twenty-two-caliber beauty.

At any rate, she took my cash and credit cards, and she gave me a real working over in exchange. But we still went out drinking after she got out of prison for armed robbery and assault. What can I say? She knows how to care for a gun.