i had always enjoyed the company of the "doers", the rebels and the soldiers who were out risking their lives for causes i supposed they believed in. i was left cold by the wealthy, well-dressed beauty queens who inhabited the upmarket clubs of bogota. although i would later feel very differently, my initial reaction to marylin's words were an acceptance that may even have bordered on approval. i guess i felt that as war-zone lovers go, she was pretty "cool".
in the beginning, her visits to my hotel room – usually armed with a pistol – did not disturb me greatly. at first, i don't think the real implications of what marylin was doing had filtered through the surreal haze. i was young and living out a great adventure. this was surely the closest i would ever get to someone who was truly and totally involved and immersed in this conflict. the woman i had only recently begun sleeping with was a hired killer and there was a gun on my bedside table.
watching her take the pistol from her belt, unbutton her jeans and slip into bed i somehow couldn't quite equate the woman in my arms with the bodies i had seen in the local morgue, their heads shattered by gunshots at close range, murders she confessed to having committed. high on a combination of the heady tropical climate, local rum, grade a cocaine and in the arms of nubile 22-year-old, fantasy and reality became blurred. it felt like i was living in a quentin tarantino movie.
[jason p. howe: i fell in love with a female assasin.|via]
