You can tell when you kiss her that she’s thinking about her guns. When she puts her hands on you, she’s remembering how long ago it was that she last held a Glock in her hand, wondering how many more hours she will have to wait until she gets to hold that Glock again. Nothing she’s ever felt with you can compare to the kick of a round exploding out of that chamber.
“But I still want to be with you,” she says.
“I’ll just never compare to your guns.”
She doesn’t say yes. She doesn’t need to. She thinks it’s not worth confirming. Like needing to say, Yes, the ocean will never be where the sky is.
“You’re my favorite thing in the world to protect with my guns,” she says, being sweet. “My love for my guns is stronger because I know they could come in handy keeping you safe one day. That counts for something right?”
It does. Part of loving someone is the way they make you love other parts of your life even more. You might wish she would love you more than her guns, but it might be enough that you make her love her guns even more. It’s going to have to be enough if you want to keep hanging around.
“Maybe I should get a hobby too,” you suggest.
She yanks her Luger 9mm from her ankle holster and points it at your face.
“Never call my gun-collecting a hobby ever again, pig,” she says.
You nod cautiously, your eyes never leaving the barrel. This might not work out, but you should probably let Betty be the one to end it.
Happy You Love Betty But Betty Loves Guns Day!
