Roger hated Saturday afternoons.

   Miriam hated Saturday afternoons because she hated Roger.

   Claire could put up with Saturday afternoons because she was generally paired up with Bob, and he was fun on any afternoon of the week.

   Bob quite liked Saturday afternoons, although it worried him that he could always see the gun resting on Roger�s lap below the table.

   Roger peered out from under his bushy eyebrows. He did not really like his bushy eyebrows, but he let them grow because he knew they annoyed Miriam. Anything that annoyed Miriam was fine as far as Roger was concerned.

   �Whose turn is it?� he growled.

   Bob grinned, and Claire's hand disappeared below the table.

   Miriam frowned. �You know very well it's your turn. Throw the dice and let's be moving on, and none of that cheating you're famous for. We'll know, you know, if you're up to your tricks.�

   Roger threw the dice. They rattled against the wooden board and all peered down as they teetered and settled. Miriam's lips trembled as if in silent prayer.

   �Double six. Oh, well done, Roger,� Bob enthused. He leaned inward and placed a finger upon Roger's piece. Roger was never sure if it was the shoe, or the hat, or the dog. In fact, Roger was no longer sure just what the game was. The piece grated upon the board as Bob pushed it along, as he methodically counted the spaces in that awful chirping voice of his. �And another go, for a double six, if I'm not mistaken.�

   �You're never mistaken, Bob.� Claire blew in Bob's ear and her hand slipped below once more. Roger shuddered as he watched her tongue brush against the fleshy part of the lobe where Bob's skin was cracked and dried.

   �Another go?� said Roger.

   �It's the rules,� snapped Miriam. �Throw again.�

   Roger groaned. �Must I?�

*

Roger hated Saturday afternoons. Claire could put up with Saturday afternoons as long as she could put her tongue in Bob's ear. In truth, Miriam hated Roger more than Saturday afternoon itself. Roger knew this because she'd often remarked at the Saturday afternoon game how he once used to nibble her ear lobe too, oh, back in the days when love was new, in the days before the affair. She said she'd never really forgiven Roger for having the affair, and any ear nibbling always seemed so inappropriate since then.

   �Roll them,� said Bob, flushed of face.

   Roger gripped the dice. They were warm against his palm. He grimaced as he raised them ready to throw and Claire moved in for another bite at Bob's ear. �Can't someone else have a turn?� he said. �Am I forever destined to throw double sixes?�

   Miriam stared. �Just throw the damned things. And no cheating.�

   Roger tossed the dice.

   The affair only lasted a week. It ended on the Saturday afternoon, even as the game was still young, even as Bob pushed the shoe, or the hat, or the dog. Miriam had said she was not surprised that it finished so soon as Roger was not a lover who lasted. Roger recalled she'd put a peculiar emphasis on that word lasted. And Bob had grinned and Claire hadn't noticed, her interest in Bob's ear going back even to then. Roger wondered if there was ever a time when he had wanted to kill someone more than Miriam at that moment, with her raised eyebrows and peculiar emphasis on her words. He shuddered: no, there was not.

   �Double six,� cried Bob when the dice toppled and stilled once more. �How many double sixes is that you've thrown in a row, old boy?�

   Roger shook his head. How many, indeed?   It seemed like an eternity of them. And each one brought the likelihood of another, and another, until such torment was unbearable upon him. Under the table, out of sight where Miriam would not think to look, his fingers brushed against the gun that rested upon his knees. Bob coughed behind his palm.

   �It's because he's cheating,� said Miriam. �He's good at cheating. He cheats every Saturday afternoon.� She stared at Roger. �And he cheated on me when he had the affair.�

   Bob grinned at the mention of the affair. Claire edged slowly away, back towards her own chair, her gaze lowered as if she was shamed. Or afraid.  Roger shook a fist, his face reddened. �Will you not let that lie?� he said. �Each and every Saturday afternoon you bring that up. It's as if you can't let go, as if you can�t let the past settle. Have you nothing else to talk about, woman?�

   �Frankly, no,� said Miriam, her words cold and sharp.

   Bob shifted the shoe, or the hat, or the dog once more about the board. No one knew which one, and no one really cared. �There you go, Roger,� he sang, �twelve more spaces around the board, and another throw for your trouble.�

   And Roger raised the dice.

   And the gun.

   It was a fine gun. It was shiny and new, with twirled pictures of spurs and sheriff's stars upon its ivory handle, and its barrel was as black as a murderer's heart. As black as the depths of Hell. It was heavy in Roger's hand; a gun with punch, a gun with attitude. But it shook as he pointed it toward Miriam and the trigger was cold against his finger. Sweat moistened Roger's brow. His breathing grew laboured.

   �I'll do it,� he stuttered. �The trigger, I'll pull it. This time I will. This time I mean it. And I can, you know.�

   Miriam raised her gaze briefly to the ceiling in that mocking, disbelieving way that only Miriam could.  Roger felt deflated by the simple gesture. Claire dabbed at her brow with a delicate handkerchief, as if the whole mention of the affair was an embarrassment to her.

   �Steady on, Roger, old son,� said Bob. �You'll be upsetting the board, and then where would we be?  We'd have to start all over again. What a waste of a Saturday afternoon that would be.�

   �Put the gun down and throw again,� said Miriam. �Enough of your nonsense.�

*

Roger hated Saturday afternoons. He hated them even more when Miriam gathered that ordering, belittling tone to her voice. And it seemed as if Miriam gathered that tone every Saturday afternoon. Claire hated guns, but she was sure she'd be fine seeing how Bob was there beside her. Bob�s expression dulled for the first time that day.

   �No, Miriam, I shan't.� Roger mumbled the words, as if it pained him even to speak, and he fought to steady his grasp upon the wayward weapon. �Not this time. This time I'm going to shoot. And don't you be trying to stop me.�

   He pointed the weapon at Bob.

   Bob played nervously with his lip. �I say, Roger�.�

   Boom!

   There was blood upon the shoe, or the hat, or the dog; no one knew which and no one cared. Bob sat slumped in his chair, his eyes staring, his grin lopsided.

   Miriam shook her head slowly. �Will you never learn, Roger?�

   Roger wept. And his wail drew answer from the damned all about him, as if all those tortured in Hell rose up to join him in his pitiful cries, as dogs may howl together across the night.

   �When will you learn there�s only once a man may murder?� Miriam raised her gaze once more. �And it�s still your turn, Roger.�

   Claire drew a finger against the blood that seeped from the hole in Bob�s cheek. She raised it to her lips and tasted.

   Roger shuddered. �Who�d believe such a place as this existed?� he moaned. He drew the dice to his chest and threw them once more across the board.

   �Double six,� said Bob, reanimated. �Well done, old son.�

   The gun lay heavy upon Roger�s lap, its single bullet returned to its chamber.

   Roger hated Saturday afternoons.

   But this was Hell.

   And for Roger every day was a murderous, Saturday afternoon.