How Much Was That Gun

Gramma

At home, I reclaimed the couch, ice packs, and assortment of pills.  Just telling the dogs to go lay down was an effort.  Dave sat in his big man's chair flipping channels, surfing gun sites and playing solitaire on his laptop.  I wanted to crack my neck to relieve the pain caused by an old fender bender.  Some stupid old woman had mistaken her gas pedal for the brake pedal in a grocery parking lot.  I settled for a muscle relaxer chased with a pain killer. 

I dozed in front of the fireplace.  It hurt to open my mouth enough to get food in.  Chewing wasn't an option.  Good, maybe I would lose some weight.  Girlfriend brought cookies.  I'm a sugar addict.  I made it work. 

Later, I shuffled to the computer to check my usual sites--Craig's List, Facebook, e-mail and the mirror on my desk.  I swiveled the chair to see the TV.  "It looks good," Dave said. "How much was it?" 

I didn't want to answer that.  My usual reply to financial questions were, "I'd rather not say," or "How much was that gun you bought last week?"  I needed to get this over with.  "I took some money out of my retirement account and some money out of my life insurance policy," I said.  He didn't press for an actual figure.  Guys don't have a clue how much shit costs.  I'd spent just under ten-thousand on the surgery alone.