Bang!
"I've been feeling especially moody lately."
"Hmm. Perhaps it's time you killed yourself," he replied, smug as smoke bellowed out of his nostrils. He smiled an art house fag smile, complete with jangled yellow teeth and lascivious implications. Between the one-colour wardrobe and the massive James Dean sideburns, he was a stereotype to be seen. Or not.
"Only a fuck like you would think that's funny."
He snorted, turning his gaze sideways to stare out the grimy window. Outside lurked an unwashed street, early morning masses sweating in the soggy English humidity. His thumb wiped absently at his lower lip. Two cups of oily, tepid coffee stagnated between us, untouched. I watched impassively as flakes of ash fell into his.
"So, what is it you wanted? Some sort of... heart to heart with me? Is that it?" The static crackle of a cigarette dissolving inwards. The french inhale. The uncaring gaze directed elsewhere, too cool for eye contact. He would have been the epitome of cool if he hadn't been so pale, or stocky, and if his five o'clock shadow didn't glow red like a street light all over his neck, just above the collar of the same-old-black-turtleneck.
"I wanted to say... bang."
"Bang?" He frowned. Crooked teeth showed at the corner of his mouth.
"Bang." I smiled.
Suddenly, his guts exploded under the table.