I snuggle between a semi-automatic and the rise-fall of his chest, staring at the porch light as it’s eclipsed by figures outside our hotel room. I roll over and shake his arm, “Honey, there’s an army outside our window.”
His eyes open to send a sleep soaked smile my way. He tugs me close, fist in my hair. “It’ll be alright, baby,” he speaks. I breathe him in, like a sedative, until he shifts and sighs, “Use the grenades, okay?”
Humming, I nod and rise. He watches my oversized tee sway around my legs as I exchange my semi-auto for two grenades from the suitcase on the dresser. One in each hand like breakfast oranges, I walk to the window, open it. The roar of the hoard, their paint slicked stench assaults me. I pull the pins, flick the grenades out, shut the window. Dust plumes in the hotel parking lot. The dull thuds, the collective shriek rings, sound stirring the air like church bells provoked. He raises his arm, welcoming my return. I cuddle in and drop the grenade pins on the pillow beside his tousled head.
