He began by twisting the bake knob on his oven to bake- it had been on broil, from the halibut a few nights before. He set the oven to 350 degrees, and turned to open his freezer- at the last minute, he decided to bake the frozen biscuits, rather than whip them up himself- scratch tasted better, but there was more cleanup. He didn't want to have much cleanup.

He removed the biscuits, then opened the fridge part of the refrigerator and pulled out some chablis. He liked it chilled, sometimes a bit colder than others cared for. But he was dining alone. He poured himself a glass, left the bottle out with the cork off. It tasted good. He liked the slight hint of nut and rosemary at the back of his throat after a swallow, as he exhaled. He took another sip, rolling the wine around the back of his tongue as he gazed out the tiny window in his living room at the red sky at sunset. He couldn't see the sun: too many buildings.

From the grocery bag he pulled out the paper-wrapped salmon, and placed it on the counter top next to the black gun. He went to his spice rack, and looked for garlic salt, sage, some cumin, a hint of curry to make it special. Then he snapped his fingers. Potatoes always take longer than fish- he pulled the new potatoes out of the sack. One of them escaped it's bag and bounced off the gun. But he was going to wash them anyway.

Peel them? He decided not to. There was something about biting through the skin of an exactly correctly cooked new potato, as the butter dripped off onto one's bottom lip, running down one's chin, and then when the skin gives and the teeth descend into the mushy meat. If he was going to mash them, he'd peel them. Or for potato salad. But he wanted them whole.

The phone rang, once, twice. Three times, four, up to seven, then the answering machine kicked in. He ignored it as he washed the potatoes, humming a little, his song getting a bit louder as he sipped wine and the glass tried to slip out of his soapy fingers. He washed off his hands, dried them, then got out a pot and put the potatoes on to boil. he turned to the salmon, gently pushing the gun, which had a faint odor of cleaning oil and gunpowder on it, off to the side. He clicked the spice bottles onto the salmon, rubbing the pink meat until he had a nice, uniform array of seasoning. Good enough for a picture. He almost wished he had a camera, so he could make a memory of this salmon. He was always thinking sentimental thoughts like that.

He'd tested the gun, then cleaned, earlier that afternoon, down at the range. The flourescents reflected in it's wooden handle and black barrel. The noise of the water beginning to bubble turned him around, and he noticed the light off on the oven. He popped the biscuits in, set the timer, stirred the foam off the potatoes. No matter how much you scrub them, there's always a little foam.

He refilled his glass and took another sip. Very nice. As he fetched the salad and fixings from their plastic bags, he suddenly got an idea, smiled, and snapped his fingers for effect. He made sure the knife was sharp, then chopped the vegetables, precisely, since the biscuits would take a while. He turned down the heat on the potatoes a little more, since he didn't want them to be done too soon.

The timer went off, and he looked at the biscuits- sure enough, they weren't quite done. He turned the dial to broil. It was an old trick of his fathers. The biscuits would finish while the salmon was broiling, giving them a subtle hint of the spices on the fish.

He picked up his glass but it was empty. Instead of refilling, though, he opened a cabinet and fetched out a few plastic bags from the grocery store. He figured three ought to be able and keep the blood from getting everywhere. He put the bags over his head, tying them under his chin, then picked up the gun, stuck the barrel in his mouth, and killed himself.