sunset on a centaur

Now although no one knows why he let the bullet float past his temple, I like to think that I understood. We were crowded in the same off-white afternoon-orange room, breathing deep the dust that misted around us and made the sun tangible
when he looked at me all distant and asked;
“Would you please pass me the pistol?”
First, as though it were just the word for itself, he played with it. He ran his fingers down the barrel, clicked his teeth on the tip, and even smelled it to see if it showed signs of use.
Then, with the smallest most meaningful smile (as though playfully) he aligned the end with his ear.
His fingers quivered,
then fired.
Those who were not paralyzed with awe recoiled. Some faces were crying while others went ajar to release acoustic emotion. Mine was blank while his was still smiling.

There was no inquiry, no autopsy, no mystery; he had been talking about it for years. Just the smirk on his face, that he aimed away from in vanity.