You shot me with a gun.
Six times in the abdomen. In 3 rows of 2. Once in the arm and once in the leg. All on the right side of my body.
In the woods. It was autumn. Colorful leaves all over the ground. Trees.
You caught up to me. Helped me. Sat me down. Put me in a car.
You drove to a small cafe with a red awning and red umbrellas outside. French restaurant. In France.
Oysters were ordered. On ice. With lemon and some hot sauce. Chef came out to talk to us. I could not walk. No one commented on my gunshot wounds.
Kept losing the conversation. Staring at the river next to the tables with umbrellas. Oysters were slimy. No taste.
I left. Walked away. You followed.
I sat at the base of a tree. On grass. To die.