The Perfect Shot

“The perfect shot,” Shawn said, “leaves people breathless.”

“Yes. I agree. There’s something so beautiful about it,” Ray replied.

They were at the bar, seated on barstools, whiskey sours in front of them. Shawn was the taller of the two and was dressed in a black tee and black jeans. Ray was more casual, he wore brighter colours — olive shirt and khaki trousers — and was very scrawny.

“You shoot much?” Shaun asked.

“I have my gigs.”

“Turned professional? Or just side gigs?”

“Side gigs, for now.”

Shawn sipped on his whiskey and said, “What shot you most proud of?”

Ray stared at his glass for a while, his eyes hazy. “The senator Dobbins. Yes, that was my best shot.”

“Perfect shot?”

Ray smiled. “No. Can’t be perfect. It’s not something you achieve.”

Shawn took a swig from his whiskey, “True, very true.”

“You know, Ray. I missed one today.”

“What?”

“Missed a shot,” Shawn said and sighed.

“Oh, what happened?”

“The dude died. My camera was on him. The lighting was perfect. But just as my finger reached the button. Poof, he dropped dead.”

Ray drank his whiskey absentmindedly. “Was it Winston?”

“Yes. How do you – You were on the same -“

“Yes, I was. I got it. I got the shot.”

“Lucky bastard,” Shawn said and flashed a weak smile. “You have it with you now? The shot?”

“What? No. I did it from afar,” Ray said and made a finger gun. “Bam!” He finished his drink and got up.

Shawn was speechless.

“I’ve got it, alright. I’ve got it printed right here,” Ray said, stabbing his forehead with his index finger.

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