They take turns telling lies about their lives before they met. Once he was a hunter trailing an elephant through the jungles of Sri Lanka, watching as it became a squirrel staring blankly down the muzzle of a pellet gun. The natives were friendly like neighbors who don’t mind the sound of gunshots once or twice every other afternoon. “Your aim is better with a couple of beers,” he says with a wink between a mouthful of nachos. Not that she would ever believe such a thing, but life’s just one page after another and if you can’t read you might as well look at the pictures. “I would never have dreamt such a thing,” she says, so much so that her eyes wander past him to the bar where a young man with quick hands studies a pistol, placing great importance on the cleanliness of each chamber. There’s still elephants out there somewhere, she thinks. Where jungles don’t matter and each shot is a guessing game. Buy bullets by the bushel. She blinks, “What’d you say?” she asks. “Try the daily special.† Buy them by the barrel. “No,” she says, “I think I’ll stick with the chicken wings.” The young man steps outside and the room is rocked by the concussion, but no one moves and the beautiful silence is a chance. “So tell me about yourself.” She looks at the door but talks anyway, not really hearing what she says. Fly away and lift yourself through the smoke. A heavy dawn is waiting for you with two guns and featherlight hands.