Not quite good enough

 
Blurred in those eyes, mired in that pearlescent green-orange tint, was an admission of guilt, something he would probably never say, but something I heard nonetheless. I checked the chambers, noted their fullness, thumbed the cylinder closed. "Apology accepted," I said softly, then pointed the revolver and pulled the trigger.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Incubus, Sick Sad Little World