The bullet looks for its victim. It thrums through the city. Searching, then stops, hovers, searching, finding.

The man’s body reserves the space for the bullet that will kill him.

He goes about his day while the 9mm brass-cased bullet in slow motion hangs beside him as he stops at a local coffee shop to buy his usual, an Americano. The bullet, anxious for contact, hums hangrily in the air, impatiently waiting for their later meeting. While he flips through his phone, he waves his hand at his companion, the floating bullet, a metal bee, silver and sleek as if to motion it away. The bullet, with its lead belly and copper jacket, dodges the hand and nears even closer to its eventual arc.

From the single finger that judges the Glock’s trigger, the bullet will jump from the muzzle at 1180 feet per second and punch the target with over 350 pounds of force. It will tear through this man’s body, shattering any bones it encounters, piercing any organs in its way, and perhaps, given the actual circumstances, which depend on shot placement, clothing obstructions, and any other deviations, it may leave a temporary cavity in the body before exiting out the other side. Most likely, this man, the victim will die, given the power of the gun and the bullet.

The bullet has a want, an intention, given to it by someone else, the one who pulls the trigger. That gives the bullet its journey, its story, the completion of its short life, and the completion of the life it will encounter.

Still talking on the phone, the man laughs at his girlfriend’s joke and drinks from his hot coffee, a thin trail of steam issuing from the top, the man’s dark skin glistening in the beam of light as it strikes his table at an angle like something a photographer would scramble to shoot before the sun fades. To the innocuous pop music that plays in the shop, the man decides that he should go to the grocery store, so he can get the items he wants to make her dinner tonight. It’s their six months together. He remembers although he’s not sure she does and he doesn’t want to give it away. He kisses into the phone and hangs up, finishing the rest of his coffee, the smell of French vanilla tantalizingly sweet like a dark perfume.

The bullet moves around the man, who smiles at a text from his girlfriend about their dog, floating to various soft parts of his body for exploration: the back, the spine, the back of the skull, the neck, into the left side of the head, then around to where it can hear the man’s heart beat from within his chest, a regulated thump that pulls the bullet to it, a siren song, a bass sound like home to the bullet, who edges just a tiny bit closer.

The man leaves the coffee shop, waving to the barista who says his name and tells him to take care. The man puts in his earbuds and cranks up the hip hop in his ears, the downtempo electro beats throbbing as an MC starts rapping along. The man nods his head to the flow.

The bullet follows the movement of the man’s head adding height to its journey behind the man, getting closer but not too close yet. The man sings along with the music, the bullet bouncing behind him, following a few inches behind, the bullet searches the man’s body for the best entry point. It lowers itself from the base of the neck, following the sound it craves, lower and lower until it can until it hear the muffled beating, regular and precise, a call of entrance. The bullet shifts closer, almost touching the clothing of the man, just shy of contact, but the bullet trembles as it excitedly waits.

From around the next corner, unheard to the man whose music is so loud he can’t even hear himself sing with it, comes a nervous voice that betrays its authority, shouting for the man in the headphones to stop. If the man even heard the voice, what could he do? Stop, run, walk, hide, beg, plead? Would it even matter? But he doesn’t hear it. The man smiles at the thought of tonight and his girlfriend and moves forward. The bullet shivers, ready to finish.

Ron Burch's fiction has been published in numerous literary journals including South Dakota Review, Fiction International, Mississippi Review, and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His novel, Bliss Inc., was published by BlazeVOX Books. He lives in Los Angeles.