What if that woman in the corner--that one, with the careful brown braids and the daisy-spotted dress--reached into her handbag and pulled out a gun? A small one, not too expensive, in matte black. And what if she pointed it across the polished oak table at her husband?

He wouldn't notice at first. But then he would glance in her direction and he would stop in mid-sentence, his mouth half-open, eyebrows comically raised. He would call out her name, but quietly, not wanting to make a scene. He would stare at her hand, expecting to see it shake, but it would remain steady as iron while she pulled the trigger.

Has she been practicing? Or is it beginner's luck? A hole would appear in his white shirt, between the breast pocket and the striped tie. He would pitch forward, already dead as the hunk of meat on his plate. The bullet would continue into the stucco wall behind him, and later the forensics experts would measure the angle of its passage to confirm what they already knew.

We would start to scream and scramble under the tables or towards the door. She would stand, deliberately, and aim her gun at that waitress, who is tall and blonde and once modeled for a local department store. The waitress would be running for the kitchen, but not fast enough. The bullet would tear into her back and she would drop her plates of pasta and fall onto the checkered floor, where her blood would mingle with the sun-dried tomatoes and broken china.

But the woman would already have turned in time to see that man over there charging toward her. His companion, who is his mistress or perhaps his second wife, would be shrieking his name and clutching at his arm, but he would shake her off without looking back. The woman would aim again and his head would shatter like a spoiled dream.

Our feet would be slipping in the blood and spilled food, and that lawyer in the gray suit would be pushing her colleagues out of her way as they fought for the door. Would I be crying, tears blurring my eyes as I searched for escape? Would you secretly enjoy the surge of adrenaline that pumped atavistically through your veins?

What if the woman walked toward us now, slowly and expressionlessly? We would be against the wall and we would feel sharp bits of plaster sticking into our shoulders and arms. We would clutch at each other, maybe, and try not to beg. I would suddenly remember the cloying scent of the honeysuckle that grew in front of my childhood home.

You would notice her necklace as it hung over her lace collar. It might have been a Mother's Day present. It would have three silver stick-figure charms, and you would wonder what those children were doing right now. You would see the gray streaks in her braids, the smudges on her glasses' left lens.

What if she lifted her gun then, and pointed it at you, and then swung the muzzle toward me? Would you feel relieved in spite of yourself? We would be breathing hard, feeling out hearts pound in our chests. I would close my eyes and try to think of a prayer.

And when no shock came, no thudding pain, I would open my lids in time to see her placing the gun in her own mouth. She would draw it between her lips obscenely, her thoughts all her own.

What if she pulled the trigger one last time?

But now we are sipping our wine and asking the goateed waiter for more pepper on our salads. And the woman in the flowered dress looks down at the napkin in her lap as her husband talks about the office and never looks her in the eyes. I don't ask you what if she reached into her handbag. Instead, I ask--

What if she did not?

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