one hundred nine

They’d had a couple mojitos in South Beach a few weeks ago. 

They’d more than likely kissed each other. 

It was their honeymoon. It’s 2016, who doesn’t kiss on their honeymoon?

In the aftermath, they read it wasn’t terrorism. Just a lone wolf acting out because he saw two men kissing in Miami. In front of his 3-year-old. 

He. Was. Just. So. Angry. 

They bandied their anger triggers.

People on busses with mobile phones. Televangelical hypocrisy.  Welfare cheats. Politicians dodging issues while circumventing their (lack of) consciences with lobbyists’ loot.  Cyclists running red lights. Adam Sandler movies getting green lights. A man getting so upset his son might see something he doesn’t agree with (or perhaps can’t accept within himself) that he takes it out on scores of innocents. 

A world where murder and a fatherless son (the one you said you wanted to protect)  was a better option than saying, “love is love.”

His anger unleashed a storm of bullets.  Their rage spawned tsunami of tears.

Did their kiss orphan his son?

Knowing the world could never give them an answer, they focused on what they could provide the world.

More kisses.

More love.

More tears.

No more guns.