because the world is no oyster, it's a man with many guns
She gave him a book that between its pages said: a man, when in bed with a woman, must take the position that is closest to the door. The book said it’s the symbolic gesture of the primal male guarding the entrance to the cave, keeping his cave family safe. The book said this simple act would make your woman feel secure, and therefore, loved.
When they entered the bedroom one night, circumstances led them to the bed, horizontal and beside each other, smoking cigarettes and sniffing each other for signs of life and signatures of heat. He took the side close to the window, which was right beside the bed. The door was on her side. In her mind, this was a violation of sorts. She felt they had just talked about this, and he had abandoned every word. God knows what could be turning the knob at any moment to break their sanctuary.
In his mind he knew doors could be bolted, be as fortified as the walls that surround them. But windows, they had to be kept open; they were necessary weaknesses, and had always to be watched. He imagined standing by windows with 7 mm rifle in hand, scoping for monstrosities to pass within 300 meters, so he could gun them down one by one in the expanse of many years. It would be the slow but steady decline of the evils of man. He imagined that if he would do this long enough—it wouldn’t matter how long it would take—every hooligan and sorrowful thought would be finally eliminated to places farther than memory, and if the two were lucky, it would finally be safe to unbolt the door, and simply step out smiling into a world that might, just might, be threatless as a bedroom.
They never talked about these little spats in their heads, which remained nameless soliloquies to the day they would fall. She was stubborn, he was irrational to the core. If they’d brought it up, it would have been a lovely little riot.