It was another day, all right. I walked into the bedroom and there you were in my, in OUR bed, with him. I pulled my nine and told that asshole to get out, and he had no qualms, being caught with my woman and a gun barrel staring back at him. You just laughed as he ran, this was just our game. She wasn't my wife, we weren't lovers. We were partners with benefits. Our plan was simple, move in and get some poor asshole to think he's cheating on some poor bastard's hot wife, and right when they felt comfortable with it, I'd "catch" them together, and he'd run away with his tail between his legs, his pants around his ankles, and his wallet on the nightstand. They always left their wallets, and we'd take the money. Those types always had a lot of money, rich bastards used to getting their way.
I smiled and kissed you, and we made love again. Afterwards, I lit a cigarette, took a drag, and passed it. I held the gun in my hand and held you as you took a drag and said "Those poor bastards always forget their wallets." You laughed and called it my "amnesia gun," which it isn't unfortunately. I'd come to love you. I pulled the trigger and my blood spilled over you. I wish I could forget all the men that slept with you but I couldn't.