Yup. I looked at it. I thought about it. I walked away. But then I returned. The owner nonchalantly edged it a little closer to me on the counter. He positioned it slightly to my left so the lighting would reflect softly down the slender gleaming barrel. It caused, well, feelings. I picked the gun up again and studied it closely. The date on the chamber reverberated faintly the rhythmic tromp of hobnailed boots to the sound of marching music. "Hoch die Fahne, hoch hoch hoch!" I held it closely, caressingly, gently touching and knowlingly exploring its fine detailed lines and smooth curves. Its subtle alluring scent of fine machine oil caused my nostrils to flare and my breathing quickened as my heart beat increased. I noticed an imperceptible, all but to me, tremor in my hands. I thought of the hands who might have held this same firearm and the situations in which it most probably had been used. A panzer grenadier on a PKW crossing the plains in Silesia in '39. A Pioneer Feldwebel assaulting the Belgian frontier in 1940. A Landser Feldwebel in the Ukraine in 42. The owner had already placed a yellow sheet of paper in front of me and asked me for my driver's license. The pen was ready. But, with a great display of sadness and willpower, I declined. I left. And, all things willing, this too will pass.
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