Slowly, without a word, Samael drew his gun. The cold metal somehow felt heavier than usual in his hands.
He pressed the barrel gently to Latoya’s forehead, keeping his face straight and solemn, showing neither expression nor emotion.
For a moment the two stared at each other, one with an expression of mirth, the other deadly serious; the faces of comedy and tragedy. Samael wondered what Latoya was thinking, and what she wanted from him.
She leaned forwards, pressing her forehead into the gun until he had to pull it back. Samael didn’t know for sure what she was thinking, but somehow, he wasn’t surprised when she kissed him.
She tasted like peaches and cigarettes. Samael was disappointed when she pulled away, and irritated to see the same smirk still widening her lipstick-reddened mouth.
“There,” she said, leaning back into her seat. “Now I’ve even kissed a murderer.”