in between a breath or two

Tonight, during dinner and while the cat slept with her head in the little tub of catnip, we watched some of La Femme Nikita.

I had forgotten how viscerally I responded when, on the night Bob takes her out to dinner and champagne and a gift of a gun, she finds herself in her little black dress and torn stockings in the restaurant kitchen, figuring out what to do while 5 or 6 gunmen hunt around for her. Her face runs through several severe emotions but settles mostly on the resolve of "I can handle this especially since I have an extra clip in my decollete." I could stand to channel that face -- and all that is behind it -- during some of the meetings and events coming up in the next weeks.

But I also wonder: given how many movies are about hired killers (we watched Shadowboxer the other night, which at least tried to think through questions of blood and violence but was too enthralled with Cuba Gooding Jr's ass to engage seriously with them), how many of our neighbors make their living in this way? The number of movies suggests that perhaps 20-30 percent of them are quietly and thoroughly cleaning their silencers right at this moment.