Argu had never been overly fond of public taverns. They were crowded, noisy things that made him anxious; he felt spying eyes were always watching him from hidden corners. Strangers came and went in places like these, some eating, others drinking and a few unconscious with their heads to the tables in front of them. Argu shuddered and looked down at his drink, hands cupped around the mug of steaming Yerith brew. Yerith soothed his stomach but always came out piping hot, leaving Argu to stare at it as the steam slowly receded into the cup. He had only finished his first sip when a man, lanky and draped in red capes, approached his booth, and sat in the seat across him.            “Argu,” the man said with a voice thinner than his physique. It took him a moment to sit down, adjusting his long legs to the interior underneath the table.            “Gurnik,” Argu said, extending a six fingered hand to the thin man. They shook and Argu sipped his drink, the steam stinging his eyes. “How are things?”            “Fine, I suppose,” said Gurnik. He blinked with those sunken beetle-like eyes, eyelids almost invisible. “Busy as always. I’ve barely any time for myself anymore. And you?”            “They’re okay,” said Argu with a shrug. He glanced around the tavern, stared at a fat blue creature with four legs as it passed them by, then hunched over his drink again, hood covering his craned neck. “Why’d you choose to meet here? I thought officers like you don’t leave your sacred temples?” He admired Gurnik’s attire; officer vest with the signature red cape of the High Consular pinned to his shoulder with a golden brooch. Could get a few peppits for that Argu thought.            “With the right words and a handful of silver, you’d be surprised how far you can get.”            Argu grunted and stirred his drink with his finger, licking the green liquid with a tongue so purple, it looked as if it were bleeding. Gurnik had met plenty of people who belonged to the Ptesh race, most of them hailing from kingdoms forged in magic and castles constructed of darker things. Argu had been deemed an outcast, born a hunchback in a society that considered stature and height to be a quality of royalty. Being the shortest of his race, standing at 5’ even, Argu hadn’t stood a chance in his royal family. Gurnik knew his story and pitied the man only a little. Since then, Argu had taken to the streets of Pallamo Market, making the ten-mile long trading center his own. The outsider was now a proud and wealthy dealer; a snake in the trade and manufacturing of amphetamines.            “Run out of your supply, ‘ave you?” Argu said with his scrunched face and thick voice. Gurnik’s beetles blinked and he nodded.            “Yes,” he said, locking his bony hands together. “I’ve come for more.”            “Powerful stuff, ain’t it?” Argu chuckled. “More than ya bargained for?”            “Nevermind that. Name your price.” Argu smiled as he reached into the knapsack slung around his shoulder. ___________________________________________            The streets of Pallamo Market were as crowded as they were every day. Thousands of patrons shuffled along in the streets; trading, smoking and dragging along animals of foreign nature. On a good day, it was almost impossible to hear your own thoughts, let alone what someone would say when speaking to you. Delivery drones hovered overhead, bronze-colored things with five legs whirring as they picked up baskets and shipped them across the market. Pungent was the scent of fried meat and sour clothing; it stuck to everything. Within the waves of strangers is where the ranger walked. Not a ranger; more so a figment that passed through the crowd quieter the blink of an eye. Shrouded in deep citrine hood and cloak, he stepped lightly, almost floated through the street. He didn’t speak, head bowed like the monks from the eastern lands of Hoo’jed. Here he drew no extra attention; no suspicion. Here, he was safe. ___________________________________________            “What do your people call this again?” Gurnik questioned. He held a clear container in his hand, no bigger than a peppit of silver. Within the transparent circle sat a collection of small turquoise crystals, jutting in all directions as they stacked atop one another. Even in the low light of the tavern, they glimmered with an unwavering luminescence.            “My people?” Argu questioned with a cocked brow and a tang of viciousness. Gurnik recalled the banishment and acted quickly.            “I meant what do you call it in your native tongue?”            “I call it Eckogili morthillious .”            “The Butterfly?” Gurnik questioned, clearing his throat. Something in the tavern’s air made his throat tickle. Maybe it’s the withdrawal, he thought.            “The Velvet Butterfly,” Argu corrected. “And that’s twenty peppits from ya.” Gurnik nodded and drew out a handful of silver coins from his pocket. Counting them silently, he organized them into two stacks of ten and slid them across the table. Argu smiled and grabbed the coins a stack at a time, his purple tongue streaking across his lips as he tossed them into his bag. ___________________________________________ The man in the cloak focused his glare on the Reju Tavern to his left. A plume of smoke came from each of the three chimneys on its roof, the shafts dented and fading in color. Patrons came and went, entering with smiles and stumbling out with drool-covered lips. The man closed his eyes and took in a deep breath of air, stroking the weapon strapped to his hip with his thumb. He walked silently to the bar, shoving two Turgish folk out of the way. With one swift kick, the door came clean off the hinges and clattered to the floor. The entire bar fell silent, even the music coming to a halt. All eyes peered to him, but he didn’t mind. He glared as his vision shifted from his left to the right. There. In the corner closest to the music stand. He stepped over the door and paced slowly down the walk. As he passed other booths by, those who sat inside them began to breathe easier, speaking in hushed voices.            “Argu Porosh,” the man said in a low voice. He placed his hand on the shoulder of the hunchback sitting in the booth, a tall and much more skinny man sitting across from him. Argu had a look of villainy upon his face. Gurnik watched him reach for his belt, as if grasping for some weapon invisible to their sight. “I think it’s time you and I had a talk.”            “We’ll talk later,” Argu said with a lick of his purple tongue. “I’m with a customer right now.”            “Exactly the reason we must talk.”            “I’m busy, dammit. Come back later, laiugna .” The man grasped Argu’s shoulder harder and leaned in closer. Gurnik could see part of his face; stern mouth and a faint beard on his lower jaw.            “Now…” the man said with a threaten somewhere in his voice. Argu snarled and swung his left arm behind his head. The man grabbed it by the wrist and yanked him out of the booth.            “Hold your breath,” the man said as he scooped Argu up by the neck, holding him tightly. Pulling out a small metal device, the cloaked man shot Gurnik one final glare before clicking a button and vanishing in a cloud of violet smoke. Those eyes… bright hazel flecked with green. Beautiful eyes but the irises reflected something… evil. ___________________________________________            About three miles on the outskirts of Pallamo Market, just over the crest of the tallest southern dune, a lone spacecraft idled in the silence around it. Humming gently, it rocked back and forth, like an anchored ship floating in a harbor. The gusts of air coming from the lower ventilation chambers kicked sand into small coils before sending them in all kinds of directions. The cockpit consisted of two seats and a large glass dome protecting it from above. Its dark red and bronze paintjob glimmered in the sunlight, sending reflective beams into the sand a foot below the vehicle’s underbelly.            The spacecraft began to whir, a high beeping sound coming from its control board. As it did, a cloud of purple smoke appeared and with it, the man and Argu Porosh struggling for breath. The man let Argu go, tossing him to the warm sand below their feet.            “You have some talking to do, Porosh,” the hooded man said. Argu choked and coughed, taking in deep swallows of air. His hood had come off, revealing his balding scalp and horned forehead.            “I don’t even know who you are, ranger!” Argu said, sitting up with his hands to the sky, trying to block the sun from his vision. Silence befell the two before the man threw his hood back onto his shoulders. He seemed a soldier, some mercenary that had long since betrayed his commands and fled his post without resignation. Gauntlets covered his arms; the one on his left glowing with multi-colored lights and switches, wires running up his arm and vanishing under his cloak. The one on his right was crafted of tight brown leather and black stitching. A heavy belt filled with canisters and makeshift gadgetry hung tightly around his waist, suspending his faded pants, putting his dark boots on display. A pair of goggles rested in his sand-dusted hair.            “Marlet Goddard?” Argu wondered before giving a small chuckle. “Of all people, Marlet Goddard dares to abduct me? State your business, peasant-son.”            “Just Goddard, thank you,” said Goddard. He winced and licked his dry lips. “You’ve been off the grid for a while, Argu. Took me long enough to find you.”            “Then how’d you do it?”            “There are those who are willing to pay if not take a beating for information. Either way, I received what I needed.” Argu grunted and kicked at the sand.            “Why the sudden interest if you were capable of tracking me down before?”            “When the greed board calls, someone’s got to answer.”            “What business has a greed board tracking me, Goddard?”            “It’s about the Velvet Butterfly.” Argu rolled his eyes and laughed. Goddard’s face never shifted.            “And what problem have you with my product?”            “It’s not just the product. It’s you as well. The prize on your head is bountiful. I don’t think you realize how much you’ve impacted Lekmek with your… operation . I must say, you’ve made quite a name for yourself here at Pallamo. How does she treat you?”            “Like a whore on a Klibday at the end of shift, mug of Yerith in hand whilst behind her.” Goddard laughed at this.            “Whatever the case, you’re to come with me. That prize is mine to fetch.”            “That so?” Argu questioned. Out of his cloak, he unsheathed a long sword from its scabbard, curved at the end with a polished bronze handle. “Those are Common Lance colors you’re sporting on that craft of yours. How would they feel about one of their own picking up bounties from a greed board?”            “It’s not mine. I… borrowed it.” Goddard looked at the vehicle with detest then back to Argu, the hunchback laughing from his gut.            “Like I’ve never ‘eard that one before. Even for the theft of a Common Lance speeder, there must be a high price on your head by now, too. You’ve got a lot at risk coming here, Goddard.”            “I like to think that Lady Fortune’s on my side. At when she’s looking for a mount for the night.”            “Will this be one of those nights?” Argu wondered, eyeing the sword on Goddard’s hip.            “We’ll have to let her decide,” Goddard said. He drew his sword, a wicked long thing that became thin at the end, almost invisible to naked eye. The crossguard was forged of twisted steel, like barbs in a berry thicket. His gloved hands gripped the golden handle with tight fists.            “So be it,” Argu said, laughing with his purple tongue out as he lunged forward. Goddard stepped back, extending his sword. The blades collided, sending shocks down both of their arms. Argu growled and lashed out again, poking at Goddard in violent juts. Goddard was faster, deflecting Argu’s moves almost as soon as they were made. Quickly, Goddard stepped back as Argu took another swing, but instead of parrying, he swung his sword downward, the end of his blade cleaving through Argu’s tough and fleshy wrist. The hunchback cried and grasped his arm at the stump as his bleeding hand fell to the sand, the granules soaking up the blood like sponges, turning it a sickly black color.            Argu grunted and stood up, cursing in odd tongues as he found his footing. Goddard glared when the alien charged after him horns first. As the sharp points came closer, Goddard dropped to one knee and threw his sword from right to left, digging it into Argu’s leg. Screaming, the alien went tumbling to the ground, falling face first into the sand with a hard thud. Rolling over, he clutched where his hip met his leg, or rather where it used to. A dark blue river of blood came out of the wound that left his leg hanging to his hip by only a thread of tendons and skin, his fingers dark and shaking. Argu’s eyes were welded shut as he cursed obscenities into the dirt. Goddard sheathed his sword and walked to him, slowly leaving deep imprints in the sand.            “You bastard!” Argu said with a cough. “How am I to walk again?”            “You won’t,” Goddard said. “You won’t be doing too much after I’m through here.” Argu had a look of despair on his face, certainly, but that wasn’t all. Some sort of understanding lingered in his eyes.            “Circle of life, I guess,” said Argu. “I can understand ‘at.” Goddard nodded and reached past his cloak, down to his right thigh. What came out made Argu’s pink eyes grow wide.            “Where did you get that, Goddard?” Argu wondered with dying curiosity. Within Goddard’s right hand balanced a pistol, large and forged from bronze metals. Two wicked pieces of steel were welded to the front by the barrel, the curved pieces extending an extra half foot past the weapon. The handle was wrapped in tight leather, the entirety of the gun seeming to accustom to Goddard’s grip perfectly with its curved handle and dark shading. Argu couldn’t help but stare down the three dark barrels as they stared back. “It’s been centuries…”            “I’m aware,” Goddard said, pulling back the hammer with his thumb. It made a satisfying click, leaving Goddard to refrain from smiling.            “Gods, when did you get it back?” Goddard cocked his head, a little bit of the smile creeping into the corner of his mouth.            “What makes you think I ever got it taken from me?” Goddard questioned. He fired a shot and Argu knew no more. The laser beam, red and glowing, went directly through Argu’s forehead, piercing through his skull and exiting through the back, embedding itself in the sand. Goddard let out a breath. Looting the body was easy but getting it to the ship was harder; for what Argu lacked in brains, he made up for in weight. He took a swig of water from his flagon and sat in the sand, watching the corpse lay in the hot sun. When he got up to haul it into the passenger seat, a twitch came from the body. Goddard jumped back as Argu began to convulse. The hole in his head began to bleed, dark blue liquid flowing out of the wound as a long cord came slinking out of it.            Goddard stared in admiration as the cord slithered down Argu’s nose and past his mouth. The dark liquid simmered in the sun and left Goddard staring at a red snake. Another twitch from the body and with it, another snake came sliding out of Argu’s skull, this one a light shade of blue. The serpents slid down Argu’s face and towards his neck. Noticing each other, they stared for a moment. Goddard watched as the red struck at the blue, biting it a few inches below its jaw. The blue coiled back around and bit the red snake on its tail. They fumbled about, tangled in each other’s grasp. Once they were free, they stared at each other for a long time, eyes unblinking and heads craned. Kill him Goddard thought, unsure of who he was cheering on, though he seemed to favor the red snake more. Suddenly, the snakes embraced, nudging their faces against the other’s neck. They coiled together, wrapping around each other until they looked to make one giant serpent. Together, they slid from Argu’s body and dove headfirst into the sand. Goddard watched silently as their tails disappeared into the ground.            “Curious thing,” Goddard said with a shrug. He stood and threw Argu’s body into the cockpit and sealed it shut. With a final look at the ground outside, Goddard lifted the ship into the air and rocketed through the mountainous cascades of the desert planet known as Lekmek, the frightened behind him and the dead by his side.


I arrive at Toronto's Union Station. I'm planning to take the PATH to the CN Tower. That's where she'll be. While her text from last night is cryptic, I know her well enough to know what she means. Her text is referencing the restaurant at the top of the CN Tower. I'm almost certain of it. That is where the best view in the city would be. She texted me again this morning saying to meet her at 6pm. I'm early. Yesterday she stole the jewels that I had gone to the Royal Ontario Museum to steal. She left four of them for me. I had to use clues she had texted me to find three of the gems. The fourth was waiting for me with the note telling me to meet her at the best view in the city tonight for a proper date. My jewel thief ex partner. I can't even call her my ex-girlfriend because we had never been on a real date. She left me three years ago without so much as a word. We had spent six months sleeping in the same bed. We had shared secrets about everything. Everything except our professions which, as it turns out, were the same. We're both thieves. When she left me, I had to deal with the police. They were after her. She'd almost gotten caught. I had to lay low for a long time after that so they wouldn't get suspicious. And we hadn't spoken since then until last night. I'll admit, I dressed up for our date tonight. I bought a new dress for this occasion. If tonight doesn't go well, there's a good chance I won't be able to look at it without thinking of her. The dress is floor length and green. It has a deep v neckline and no sleeves. It's a bit chilly to wear in winter, but it looks stunning. It might be even better than the red ballgown I wore to the gala at the ROM last night. My hair is up in a braided bun. I walk into Union Rail Station from the subway terminal then I walk up the stairs to the ground floor. I pass through the station and go up the escalator near the platform that leads to the train to the airport. I'm not going to the airport, though it would be easy enough to run away and leave her like she left me if I wanted revenge. I continue walking through the Metro Toronto Convention Centre and across the Skywalk. By then I'm right under the CN Tower. I walk into the main lobby and up to the reception desk. The place is full of people. The receptionist is wearing a nametag that says: Indigo, they/them. "Hi, my...um..." Can I call Isabelle my girlfriend if this is our first real date and we separated three years ago? I don't need to bore Indigo with the details. "My girlfriend, Isabelle Cartier made a reservation at the 360 for tonight at 6." They smile and say: "okay, my associate will walk you to the restaurant. I hope you have a good time!" I slip them a $15 tip and thank them. Their associate is a large person with short hair. Her nametag reveals that her name is Willow and her pronouns are she/her. She walks me to the elevator. We step into the elevator and up and up and up we go. As the ground gets smaller and smaller beneath my feet, I get dizzy. "How do you do this for a living?" I ask, feeling queasy. "Security?" Willow asks. I shake my head. "Oh! Going up and down all day? I love this stuff. It was either this or roller coaster testing but it turns out they use crash test dummies for that so here I am." She's got an easygoing smile on her face. She must be waiting for me to laugh with her. And I would if I wasn't so dizzy. I flash her a weak smile and she gives me a look of pity in response. I'm sure I'm not the first person to feel sick during the elevator ride and I'm sure I won't be the last. We arrive at the top. I tip Willow then pause for a little while to get my head to stop spinning. I walk up to the host's desk at the 360. "My girlfriend made a reservation for 6pm. Isabelle Cartier?" "Oh, yes, come in. Your table is ready." "Thank you." I tip the host when I arrive at my table. It's a window seat. And, because the restaurant revolves once every 72 minutes, it's a fantastic view of the city. I get settled. I'm early, so I'm waiting. I snap a few photos of the city with my phone. When the allure of photography wears off, I wait. And wait. And wait. A server asks me if I want to get a drink while I'm waiting. I ask them for water. When they bring it to me I take my sweet time drinking it. Anything to avoid having the server return to me while I'm alone. And then I wait. And wait. And I wait some more. I stare at my phone. I stare out the window. I try to find some distraction. As each moment passes I become more and more aware of how long I have been waiting. And when I see the view I saw when I sat down at the table, I realize she's late. Or I'm in the wrong place. But where else would she mean? What part of the city has a better view than the CN Tower? The server comes over to ask me if I want to order, but I tell them I'm still waiting for my date. They look at me with pity. I drink more water. I keep alternating between looking out the window and reading the newspaper on my phone. After the second revolution, I begin to wonder if she stood me up. Or if I'm in the wrong place. But I can't be in the wrong place because she made a reservation here. The staff at the CN Tower only let me in because of that reservation. The sun is setting over Lake Ontario. Where is she? It hurts thinking that she may have abandoned me again. It begins to rain. It makes the city disappear leaving only dim lights below me and a huge expanse of moonlit clouds beside me. The clouds move like a stormy sea. Thunder rumbles and lightning flashes below me. I hope Isabelle isn't caught in the storm. Unless she stood me up in which case she deserves it. As if in answer to my thought, Isabelle bursts into the room soaking wet mere moments later. She's wearing a silver cocktail dress. She must be freezing. She's holding a bouquet that looks a little drowned and sad. It must be windy out. And the waterlogged flowers suggest that it's pouring rain out there. It's a bouquet of red tulips and red carnations dotted with purple hyacinths. There are violets and forget-me-nots nestled in the other flowers. There are ferns around the outside of the bouquet to keep the flowers contained. The bouquet seems to be alive, too. The flowers have their roots wrapped up in a soaking wet cloth to keep them from drying out. I stand. She embraces me and doesn't let go until I do. I don't mind getting my dress wet. Not if it's her hugging me. Besides, she's here. She showed up. That's what matters. "I'm so sorry I'm late," she says. "I tried to get you flowers, but almost all the shops were closed... and then I remembered you like live ones better anyway and so I stole..." I kiss her before her story draws too much attention. Flower theft is still theft and the last thing I need is to have her run off if the cops show up. She brushes her fingers against my jaw and kisses back. When she pulls back, her eyes widen and she looks at her hands. They're caked in dirt. There's something on my face. Most likely mud. "Oh..." she says I smile. She hands me the flowers. "I'll be right back... I should probably go wash my hands." She kisses my cheek, then she walks away. I sniff the flowers. They're beautiful. I try to remember the flower language associated with these particular plants. Isabelle loves riddles and puzzles and ciphers. There must be a hidden meaning to them. I try to focus but she's back before I can decipher any message that might be hiding in the bouquet. She sits down. The server comes over. We're doing the three-course prix-fixe menu with wine pairings. "I'm so glad you came tonight," Isabelle says when the server has gone to get us our first drinks of the evening. I can't think of what to say. I'm even more flustered when she takes my hands in hers. Her hands are soft but strong. "I know I don't deserve a second chance. Not after leaving you alone to deal with the cops when they were onto me. And certainly not after three years of radio silence, but... you're here tonight. You actually came. Even after all that. Is there... is there a chance we could... you know... get back together?" If she had asked me that a year ago, the answer would have been no. Even if she had asked me last night before the ball... before I saw her right in front of me looking gorgeous... before I saw her holding the gems I had planned to steal, the answer would have been no. But seeing her again makes me unsure. "Maybe... not right away, of course, but... I'd like to keep seeing you." "Sorry it rained. It snowed all night yesterday. I thought we'd at least get to see the sunset. But still, this is the best view in the city." "All we can see are the clouds, but it's pretty with the moonlight..." She cups my face with a gentle hand and turns my head back to look at her. "No... not the clouds. The best view in the city is sitting right across from me."


What Can I Do For You “What is this?” “What does it look like?” It looks like a note, because, it is a note, written on what looks to be the back of an advertisement proclaiming the double decker to be the juiciest burger ever, “Subliminal.” I look from the paper into his steely black eyes, bulbous face, and habitually worn stocking cap, adorned with the remnants of dead leaves.

I am not a believer in fate, destiny, or really any insinuation that infers a Deja vu fog covers any situation in life, but I was considering changing my mind. The third time in a month, and Jamal is standing before me, trembling, his left eye tic gymnastic, pretending the cameras can’t see him, and Jerry our security guard, couldn’t pick him out of a lineup of one.

I’ve known Jamal for, well since he was a baby. His mother Anita was my neighbor, our neighbor. I lived with my adoptive mother Liz, at the time. She has since moved on. Not die, she hooked up with this guy from Detroit who claimed to be trumpet player in some obscure band. She was a push over for musician types. But then as we get older our chances at happiness diminish, and I think there comes a time when we realize we have to take what’s there, as what we was hopin for was commin; might just not come. Jamal spent a lot of time with Liz, as she was incapable of keeping a job. She had an affinity to directions, especially when give by a man. I didn’t know Alvin, her, I don’t know what he was, but he somehow soured her on all things like him. I kind of think that’s why Jamal turned out the way he is. Jamal was a good kid, but temperamental as I remember. He used to make up excuses to be sad. When Anita would tickle him to get him to listen to her, he wouldn’t laugh, he’d cry. If she told him, they was going uptown he’d stomp his feet and proclaim that he was only allowed to go downtown. And his responses were to a woman. God only knows what would have transpired had it been, say an Alvin type. When I asked once about why only downtown, he said it had to do with a song he’d heard on the radio. Made no sense to me, but then I don’t listen to the radio. I been a teller at this bank, Bank of the U.S. for fifteen years. Imagine that, fifteen years checking out how others abuse their money. It kind of wares on you after a while. When Anita left, and Liz decided life wasn’t going to last forever and went looking for greener pastures, I was left with Jamal. Liz said I was sixteen and that was plenty old enough.  For what I never got the chance to ask. I realized that I wasn’t fit to be a parent, but then he wasn’t fit to be a child, so we kind of come to a truce. I let him stay with me, he let himself stay with me, but only because I’d said it was OK, and he agreed. I know it sounds like we don’t care much about one another, but that maybe, because we don’t. We tolerate one another however, which is better than a lot of folks do. I don’t tell him how to run his life and he don’t stop telling me how to run mine, perfect! Lately he’s been coming up with these ways we can rob the bank. He says cause I’m working there so it would be an inside job, and from most of the movies he’s watched, it is the best way to do it. He says no one ever expects it as employees have a, “Built in trust from the establishment.” He believes it’s like I work in a convent, and God is my boss. So he’s standing there, looking at the paper like its going to turn into loaves and fishes. Havin been through this before, I pretend I’m putting money in a bag. Actually it’s just some dirty laundry I’ve learned to keep under the counter in a bag, for just such an occasion. The first time I had to improvise, and it caused quite a stir. Apparently, Mr. Hanes our president, keeps a close eye on toilet paper use… of all things! The four rolls I stuffed into a bag set off some kind of book keeping alert that resulted in a memo, “To whom it may concern,” so, the laundry. Jamal had said to me one time that he thought money, unlike the way they talk about it in the movies, “Smells like old socks.” So, I give Jamal the bag, put the note in my pocket, and say louder than normal, I do that when I get nervous, get loud, “Next.” Jerry the guard looks up from his doing nothing, I smile, life goes on like it was a normal day. I know Jamal will be waiting outside as he needs a ride home. He takes the bus down to the bank, but for some reason refuses to take it back. He walked home last time I refused; it took him two days.  He claims he got distracted watchin some old guys playin a game like checkers, but with animal heads and funny buildings. I’ve explained to him that the bus, mingling with all the people is a good way to disappear. He tells me that is the first place they look. Haven’t I watched the movie Speed? I hadn’t, so I had to take his word for it. Anyway, I know he’s out there. I tell Margie, the one next to me on the line, that I’m going to lunch. It’s only ten thirty, but that doesn’t seem to bother anyone, ever, so I go. I smile at Jerry. He pretends he’s too busy checking for possible deviant robbers to see me. I’m used to it. No one seems to notice me, ever, except Jamal occasionally, but that’s only when he needs something. I go outside and Jamal says first thing, “What’s this?” He’s holding up a pair of my favorite underwear, the baby blue ones with the little rose on the... I of course grab them, no need for every passerby to see, and stuff them in my pocket. Jamal standing there looking his usual puppied self, asks what I was up to. If I'd wanted him to do laundry, why drag him all the way downtown.  “There’s a laundromat just on the corner a block over by where that guy is always trying to sell me, a bag.” I’ve found from experience that answering Jamal’s questions only confuse me, so I suggest we go to lunch, “My treat.” He loves to eat, so it is an easy distraction. I take us over to the Donut Hop across the street, and we have donuts and coffee. He likes donuts but only orders coffee to have something to dunk the donuts in. I’ve always been amazed at how donuts seem to change him into someone else. We have a quiet couple of donuts, talk about the weather, whether the Dodgers have a shot at beating those nasty Yankees, and then I offer to drive him home. He’s a Cub’s fan, by the way. He always pretends that he wasn’t expecting me to offer, so he puts on this big show about me bein too nice to him, he doesn’t deserve it, and all the usual things about how he is grateful I’m me, and he’s him. At times it makes me want to cry, but then I’ve seen what that does to him. We find the car and he climbs in with his usual agility, hitting his head on the roof, punching it, which of course causes more pain and punching. We finally leave the bank lot and head for the freeway. He’s kept his eyes closed since we'd left. I have my own spot being I’ve been there so long. No name, but #7 is mine. Jamal usually spends about fifteen minutes standing there lookin at the white stenciled number and mumbling something about how someday he’s going to get him a number like that. He usually only does that when he’s about to say something he considers prophetic, like, “Don’t you think the sun is bigger than it used to be.” I always agree, it’s so much easier. He pushes the button on the door and watches the glass disappear. He pushes the button again, and the window glass, mysteriously appears. He repeats the process several times and then hangs his head out the window and begins to shout obscenities at the cars going in the opposite direction on the freeway.

He then asks, “Is it legal for them to do that,” while he points at the one-way sign. I can only laugh, and shake my head, knowing tomorrow could be like today, or possibly, even better.


Zach was a self-identifying bachelor. He liked to find dates online, have some fun, and never speak to them again. Tonight’s date, Ella, was everything he looked for in a woman. Tall, thin, and dumb. The two decided to meet up at a popular restaurant that he insisted on paying for. The two talked over a bottle of wine, but he hadn’t cared to listen to what she had been saying. After a good meal and a few glasses later, Zach proposed they continued back at her place. “Sounds fun, but there’s just one thing,” Ella said hesitantly. “My dog likes to lay in the bed; I hope that’s not a problem.” “Are you kidding?” Zach said with a huge grin. “I love dogs!” The two shared a kiss before driving back to her place. It wasn’t long after walking in that they were all over each other. Ella was the first to pull away, making her way down the hall, leaving a trail of clothes behind her. Following her lead, Zach quickly stripped down to his boxers. Rushing through the bedroom, Zach was almost ready to jump into the bed until he saw what was lying there at least. “What the hell is that!?” He screamed. Laying in the king-sized bed was a large brown bear. Frighted, he failed to notice his half-naked date petting the docile grizzly. “This is Chewy. Isn’t he the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen?” Ella was practically nuzzling her face into its fur. “That’s a freaking bear!” He was now crawling back towards the door, not wanting to agitate the large creature. “What? No, he’s just a big boy,” she laughed. “I think he’s an Akita. Ooh, maybe even a mastiff!” She giggled as she scratched behind the bear’s ear. “This chick is insane!” Zach thought internally. Though he had never seen a bear in person, he knew one when he saw it. Chewy rolled off the bed and made his way towards Zach. “Please don’t kill me!” The bear placed its massive paw onto his leg and its head to his chest. “Aww,” Ella cooed, “he wants you to pet him.” Fearing for his life, Zach did as he was told. The bear made a loud growl that he hoped meant the animal was happy. “He likes you.” “So,” he spoke, “where did you find this... er... dog?” “Funny story, Chewy here was going through my trash. I always wanted a dog, but my mom said I wasn’t smart enough to take care of one, whatever that means.” Ella joined in petting the “dog.” “I give him baths, I clean up his poop, and I bought a huge bag of dog food. I think I’m an awesome pet owner.” Zach couldn’t hold back his laughter. His fear was long forgotten, allowing him to enjoy the odd scenario he was placed in. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he would be petting a brown bear, especially in nothing but his underwear. Chewy let out a roar causing all that fear to return quickly. “Time to go potty.” Ella rushed to her closet, put on a robe and slippers, and ran to the living room with the bear in tow. Zach, trying to regain his composure, followed them. Ella opened the sliding glass door leading to the open back yard allowing the bear to go about its business. Looking at the two, Zach could tell how much she loved this animal. He’s surprised that she hadn’t posted pictures of it all over her social media. This made him wonder. “Hey, Ella, how long have you had Chewy?” “Hmm,” she thought for a moment. “About three days.” “Three days!?” He looked towards the kitchen at the half-eaten fifty-pound bag of dog food. “I know he eats so much. I don’t know how I’m going to afford all this dog food, not to mention when I have to take him to the vet.” She sighed. “But, I already decided to take care of him, so there’s no turning back now!” He admired her dedication but couldn’t overlook her lack of common sense. Although, he was feeling something he hadn’t felt with the other girls he’d been with. “Sorry, I guess this kinda ruined the mood, didn’t it?” “A little,” he admitted, “but I don’t mind. I actually would love to get to know you more if that’s alright.” The two spent the rest of the night talking, making sure to get to know each other. It turns out that Ella was going to school for fashion, but Chewy gave her a new love for animals. She has an appointment with her counselor on Monday to talk about switching majors. On her off days, she works as a model for a fashion blog. She also volunteers to be a nude model for her school’s art department. It turns out, there was a lot more to her than he had previously assumed. Though she had zero-to-no common sense, she was still a hard-working student trying to make her dreams a reality. He couldn’t help but want to see all that effort pay off in the end. Before they knew it, it was well into the night. Zach collected his belongings and made his way to leave. “It’s pretty late,” Ella spoke up, “how about you stay here for the night?” “Are you sure?” He questioned, “I don’t want to be a bother.” “I insist! Besides, Chewy would be sad if I threw you out.” Zach got ready for bed, feeling a sense of joy. He couldn’t begin to describe how incredible this night had been. Not only did he pet a bear, but he also got to meet the most interesting woman he’s ever seen. He couldn’t think of anything that could top this date. The two cuddled up against each other for the rest of the night. Though, he did wish that the bear hadn’t decided to cuddle up against him too. He figured he better get used to it if he wants that second date.


After the fire had gone down and the rain had become nothing but a drizzle, Ria said to him, "you should know me by now." He did not look at her but he knew she was smiling. "You're right. I should." And yet, here he was, straddled to a chair, knowing he would die and she would kill him. And perhaps he'd known all along that the fire in his eyes had burnt with a delicate tenderness for a woman who did not love him.

By his feet, her cat lay curled up. He wanted to stroke the furry coat but she did not want to take any chances.

"Tell me," he said, graciously. "Why do you want me dead?" She laughed, almost as though she'd been aching to hear the question. Her lips moved, gently, with a wild abandon that for a moment, he understood why he'd loved her blindly. She got up on her feet and made her way to the grate. Poking the fire with a cane, she turned back to him. The fire dissolved the frowns on her face so that she looked otherworldly to him. Almost ethereal. He did not think about dying at the moment when her hair looked like blurry sunlight. And if he'd been thinking at all, he'd say she made him doubt his natural existence. Ria was beautiful but more than that, she was a bubbly figure. There was no way to describe her. It was because of the way she smiled —like the earth would shatter if anyone joined her— that he'd fallen in love, recklessly, with her. Her hair was brown, short, unattended. And it ran past the nape of her neck for only a second. Her forehead was wide and when they had first met, she'd joked that it was perhaps because the world had its home there. He believed her not because it had made sense. But because, in her eyes, there was a passion unspoken for. It was something he needed, something he ached for and it tortured him in silence. She wore glasses on their second date and he thought she looked like his mother. He hadn't told her but she knew and she stopped. Then there was the matter of her skin and her body. It was almost as if she was not real, like a dream he would wake up from. She was easy to love. And easy to understand, like life thickened beneath the surface.

"If it was up to me, Jack, you'd already be dead." He nodded and bit his lips. A week ago, she dragged him down the steep path until they'd reached the little garden and they'd lay their backs against the wet grass. She'd stroked his hair with a tenderness that still weakened him. And she'd talked. "I love you, you know," she'd said.

Now, it sounded rehearsed. But it did not leave his mind. And really, his head. It was like fire and air, dancing before him, chastising him in a ridiculous subterfuge.

He struggled with the ropes now, tightening his hands until they formed something that resembled rage. But, no, he was not angry. Far from it. He was exhausted and sad and curious. It would kill him first —this tentative mixture of truth and relief and deep-ended curiosity —and he knew it. The ropes would not bulge. It was tight, uncomfortable, wickedly disastrous.

"Why am I tied up then? Kill me, alright." Her voice came from the dying flames. Throaty as though there was no life in it. She closed her eyes but only for a second. When she opened them, she smiled. "There's still time, darling." But there was no time. In three hours it would be daybreak and the sun would carve circles on her neck and he would see her clearly and she would exist before him. For now, she was a dream. "Or are you afraid?" he asked, rolling his eyes. "Afraid?" she repeated the words like it would mean something else to her. It was the same meaning, no difference. His question meant that he thought she would not kill him. But she would and she would dispose of his body the way she'd been taught at the Academy. "Nothing scares me anymore." He picked his way through her words. "That implies you've been scared before, Ria." "I like you," she was laughing now but it sounded rather unnatural, bleeding violently across the room.

He was a writer, she knew, and once, she'd read his work. He'd written it for her. It was one of those stories people wrote under the glow of artificial lights, dedicated to strangers in subway cars. She read it as she got dressed for their fifth date, applying lipstick and wondering why he'd laced in a remote kind of hope in the story. Hope was nothing for people like her. Hope meant that she would be weak and defenseless and human. But she was not human. Far from it. She was invisible. "Do you know how to paint?" she bled the words out, her back against him. The rain had since stopped falling. But outside, it was still dark.

He could tell it was a trick question. But he answered nonetheless. "I don't, no." "Oh," she turned to him and shrugged. The silence crept slowly, between the chairs and the dragonfly wallpapers and the grate with dying flames. It stopped before him. The cat got up and walked into the kitchen. "He must be hungry. Silly cats." She went into the kitchen but came out minutes later and tiptoed to where he was. "Why do you write then?" He lowered his gaze to her legs, trailing invisible hands against the soft flesh. "Do you ask everyone?" "Who's everyone?" she wanted to lie to him; to feel the heat break around her neck. He rolled his eyes again and sighed. She heard the sharp exhale but waited, patiently, for him to talk. "Don't tell me I'm the first person you're going to kill." She did not smile. Her face was expressionless. She did not move. "I should have known," he said. She threw her hands up in the air and chuckled. "You're bright. Smart. I should expect nothing less since you're a creator. But, yes, you should have known." He thought he was screaming but he was whispering. "I loved you, Ria. I loved you." She said, "Then it's not my fault." She touched his face now and lowered her lips to his so that she could brush it gently. He tasted her, briefly, but he knew she tasted salty. Like she'd been crying. Or she'd pushed her head deep into the waters.

"But you can't blame me," she said and ran a shaky hand through her hair. She would cut it later, he knew, but suddenly he craved to touch the messiness of her hair. "I mean, killing is not such a good thing, right? But you can't blame me." "Why? You have a choice." She shook her head before he finished talking. "I don't have a choice, Jack." "Why?" he asked again, swallowing, dying in the sublime image of her. "Don't ask me." But what she was trying to tell him was that he should keep asking her until the point where she would break and tell him everything. About her old life in the other world. About the Academy. "I just need to know these things," he insisted. "You owe me that, at least." What he was trying to tell her was that he loved her still, despite the fear of death by her hands. "I owe you nothing." Perhaps, they did not need to say it to each other. It was life, the way it should be, the way it would always be.

The fire died down and he imagined himself in bed in a motel, half-drunk, half-awake, listening to traffic signs and her soft snores. "You snore, you know." She found that she laughed at his words, that she still found it funny he would linger over the past like a wicked discovery of something in its real, delicate form. That he would remember her in her weakness despite the fear that she would soon end him. "I don't snore, Jack." And she discovered, quickly, that talking with him brought her relief. She was not running away from anything but it felt as though she'd come to a crossroad. "You do," he argued. The pain was seeping through now, the ropes holding him in place. He used to think he was a strong man but here he was, aching to hold her in his arms, angry that he had not known she was not real. "Remember that night we ended up in a cheap motel? I did not sleep. I simply listened to you." She stopped laughing. "We should blame you then." He hesitated and then released his breath. "We should, I guess." Ria got up on her feet and walked to the wall. She touched it and ripped the wallpaper out. A stark space stared back at him. "See? Not beautiful anymore. Not whole." "Is that who you are?" he inquired, feeling a little subdued by the power of her imagination. She looked at him and at the way his legs pushed out, away from the chair. "What do you think?" "I think I'll refrain from all that," he said. "Why?" He chuckled dryly and bent his head. He did not want her to see his tears and regret. It would be too much —to die by her hands and cry by her words—so he stayed there until he was ready to talk. And he talked, "I —we were good for each other. We had a connection and I thought we had a future. I keep thinking about it now. I keep thinking about how you could deceive me to this point." But it wasn't deception. She hadn't always known he would die by her hands. The Academy had sent her to study him, make him love her, but they hadn't told her he would die or that she would be the one to kill him. So it couldn't be called deception. "You think I didn't love you?" she asked, chewing her lips. "Please, kill me." She raised her dress and produced a dagger, strapped neatly on her thighs. Ria twisted it and yawned. "Why do you want to die?" "I don't want to," he was almost shouting. "But I am tired of waiting." "That's the whole point of this," she showed him the dagger. "There's something written on this. Latin. Don't know the meaning though but that means nothing, right?" "I guess." She twirled the dagger in front of him, in front of her, and then dropped it on the chair. "Have something to say?" "Is there a point?" he wanted to know.

She started to drag her lips open but stopped. "If you want to say something, you should now." "I love you," he said. "I know. I should know." "I loved you, Ria." This time, he screamed so loud he thought he'd died. Because he did. The Academy did not live or exist on earth. It was in a different world, too far away from humanity, too old. But it was where she'd been all her life, schooled to become deadly. It was where young people went to when they did not remember their past lives. And she did not remember who she'd been before or what she'd have wanted to be. She was trained. Ria had done her best, tried her nicest to hold him in but he'd taught her something called hope and love. They were foreign things to her but it was a warm feeling, circling about like an embrace. Take, for instance, their first dance. It had been a reckless swaying of the hips and a mesmerizing swoop of curled fists. They'd locked eyes in the middle of the dancefloor with the jukebox playing solo. And he'd loved her to an unbearable end. That look in her eyes as she laughed had seemed real. How had she faked it? "You should be surprised I want to kill you," she said, dropping to her knees in front of him. "I mean, you woke up this morning and kissed me and you told me you loved me. Don't you want to know how quickly things could change?" "I don't want to know." He did not want to because he knew. He'd changed for her, made time for her, loved her unconditionally. Knowing could kill him and maybe, for now, he needed to die by her hands with her Latin dagger lodged in his chest.

"I'll tell you," she folded her hands across her chest. "People change." He waited, arched an eyebrow, and said, "I thought you were going to explain." "You know me. I don't do explanations." "I don't know you." "Too bad for you then." But if she'd been much of a talker, she'd have told him about the Academy. That she was not human in any way. That she was a decoy to a world waiting to overshadow reality. But she was not a talker.

Ria picked up her dagger and placed it on his thighs. He took a deep breath, said, "This is wrong, Ria." She nodded, "I know." She raised the dagger, flashing it above him, so he could see the end.

But he said, "What went wrong?" "I don't know," she was honest and she did not know why. "But I'll give you a quick one." "I suppose I should thank you." "You should." After he'd stopped breathing, she raised herself from his lifeless form and tiptoed outside. The air was chilly but it tickled her. "You should," she repeated to herself. There was no one around and she doubted anyone would be around in weeks. She stood there, watching the Blue Moon, sniffing. The air smelt like autumn but she could not tell. Ria walked back into her home and poked at the fire again. The flames filled the space up and she saw him now. He was dead, she knew, but she wanted to hear his voice again. She untied him and watched as he dropped to the carpet. "What a shame, man!" she groaned. Her voice greeted her from the kitchen, same throaty, same carelessness. "A shame, I suppose." She allowed the sun to touch her hair in the morning. And then she changed her phone and drank alcohol. He was still on the floor by evening. In the night, she poked at the fire and laughed.


Whenever I wear a Double Windsor knot, the tie tails run embarrassingly short. I hide the tiny tails inside the safety of my vest so no one else can see them. The gargantuan knot, however, that’s a big dumb flashing advertisement: THE GENTLEMAN ENTERING THE ROOM IS VERY IMPORTANT. God forbid I bend over and pick up a pencil or paperclip off the floor—the tails could pop out from under my vest and everyone would think that I’m a clown rather than a lawyer.

What day is it anyway? Is it Thursday? I wear my brown tie on Thursdays. But there are three ties here on my closet post, one for each day left in the week. Wasn’t yesterday Wednesday?

I’m going with the brown tie. I love this tie. From a distance it’s a deep mahogany, but close up, it’s a myriad of chocolates and indigoes. The browns swirl in different hues, resembling tear drops or amoebas—I haven’t decided whether the tie is crying or an amoeba. If the tie is crying, the blue drops radiate sadness in cocoa stitched echoes. If the tie is an amoeba, the blue drops are its food vacuoles, deep inside the plasmasol of the light java swirls and the ectoplasm of the dark chestnut stitches.

The sun peeks over the horizon like a hot red blanket. Is it March already? I rub the meat of my palm over the steam clouded bathroom window and the tree line comes into focus. No frost. It must be March.

With a washcloth, I wipe out a sliver of my reflection in the steam fogged mirror. The brown tie agrees with my blue collared shirt. It’s a meeting of the minds. I fasten the top button of my shirt, flip up my collar, and place the tie in position. The short end lays on point with the fourth button down while the long end swings low around my mid thigh. I rub the tie between my right index finger and right thumb. This tie is thicker than most ties. Fabric like this probably caused the Silk Road Wars. The coarse top and soft underside feel exotic, even in 2020. Or, is it 2021? I pull the long end over the short and pull the long end up and over what will become the majestic Double Windsor knot. The long end’s tip wafts her perfume, tones of orange, pear, jasmine, and vanilla. What was it? Chanel? Black Opium? What is she doing now? Is she asleep? Maybe she’s dreaming. It’s an hour behind there. No sunrise in Memphis, yet.

I pull the long end up and over again, but this time on the other side. The end swooshes past my left ear. We rode the swing carousel. The air wooshed past my ears. I could feel it more than hear it, though. DJ Xtre was so loud that night. We got “Rebel Yell” by Billy Idol for our ride. She was in front of me for most of the ride, but when it tilted, she and I rode side by side. Our eyes met just after Steve Stevens’ guitar solo, the one that sounds like a Stormtrooper gun set to stun. “I’d sell my soul, for you, babe. For money to burn, for you,” Billy sang as the colored lights and artificial thunder buzzed and boomed around us. We held hands after the ride and then shared a fried Twinkie. A month later, she left. How long ago was that? Last year? Has it been a year already? I pulled the long end over and around and over and around. Did the Duke of Windsor ever tie a Double Windsor on accident? The Double Windsor is sometimes called the Balthus knot, named for Balthasar Klossowski de Rola. Balthus is said to have created his knot around 1930 out of boredom, but he rarely wore it. If he hardly ever wore it, how would anyone even know about it? With no TV, no internet, no wide newspaper circulation, something seems amiss about giving Balthasar the credit for popularizing the Double Windsor when he only wore it maybe twice. It must be Thursday because I haven’t worn this tie yet this week. I tuck the large end through the loop and pull it taught. I flip down my collar. There, there—a perfect Double Windsor. Thick and in charge. Not a Half Windsor. Not a Full Windsor. A Double Windsor. I tuck the ends of the tie into my waistcoat.

I grab my pocket watch from the watch stand next to the bathroom mirror. I rub my thumb over the back of the watch. I read the engraving, “Congratulations on passing the bar, Malcolm. Love, Mom.” She gave me an engraved money clip when I graduated from high school. I lost it on Franklin Street during a Thursday night bar crawl. Mom gave me an engraved chip when I checked out of rehab. I carried it in my pocket everyday. But one day it fell out when I sat in a comfy chair at the Wagon Wheel Tavern. I fell off the wagon. The watch chain clasps to my belt like a vice grip. I tuck the watch away in my vest pocket. Biden’s on the news a lot, talking about empty chairs at kitchen tables. Mom was one of those chairs. COVID snuffed her out. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I ain’t losing this watch. No way.

I sit in front of the television with a bowl of granola mixed with two tablespoons of Skippy peanut butter and a cup of whole milk. I turn on the news. Thursday! I was right. It is Thursday. She still calls Thursday “Little Friday.” Why does she always want to leave work early on Friday? I guess she likes the weekend. I hate the weekend.

The weather report predicts rain later today. It’s supposed to rain in Memphis this morning, too. I hope she has an umbrella. Shit, she has like five of mine. I don’t know if it was because she liked my umbrellas or if she just kept losing them. But wait, she won’t need an umbrella because she works from home now. I’d wilt if I had to work from home.

The Double Windsor holds all of this in place, deep and under my vest.


Rain had seeped through the seals of the Cadillac convertible and forced her off the road. Darcy hadn’t correctly closed the convertible top on the new 1970 Coupe Deville as she left fled the restaurant. Who could’ve, given what happened? She’d thought the first pitter-patter of rain onto her lap was the universe’s way of mocking the tears sliding down her cheeks, but as the trickle swelled into a downpour, she realized even God himself had it out for her tonight. He must’ve taken pleasure in making her suffer. In a matter of minutes, he’d ruined her engagement, her makeup, and her new chinchilla wrap. She decided not to wait out the storm in her sodden car. The choice between sitting in a puddle in her car versus making a short dash through the rain to shelter under a bridge was an easy one. With her wrap held over her head, doubling as her umbrella, she threw open the Cadillac’s door and sprinted—as fast as one could in heels—to the bridge. A wolf howl echoed through the night and, although the howl sounded somewhat distant, it made her hurry her feet even faster. When she reached the sloped wall beneath the bridge, she collapsed onto it in an exhausted heap. She breathed a deep, steadying breath and took a moment’s inventory of herself. She was drier than expected, a plus. One heel had snapped off in the mud, which was fine, as she planned to toss tonight’s wardrobe in the furnace. She wanted to burn tonight from her memory, clothes and all. She was hungry, too, having only had half a martini at dinner before tossing the rest in Rob’s face. A gust of October wind whipped under the bridge, chilling the wet skin beneath her sequined minidress. A potent scent of urine and grime—a scent she associated with homelessness—wafted by her and she sat upright, realizing she was not alone. An unkempt man sat not ten feet away from her, a blue tarp wrapped around him like a blanket. He eyed her with equal parts curiosity and lasciviousness. His leer made her shiver a second time. The dim red lights under the bridge, meant to illuminate the space for passing trains, emitted just enough brightness for her to notice a carcass, something like a rat or a rabbit, beside the man. And along with that sat a rusty knife. The killing blade. “Always nice to have company,” the man said in greeting. “I’m waiting for the storm to pass,” Darcy replied. “Oh, it’s no trouble,” he said, as if he were the polite host of some dinner soiree. “Not often I get to talk with pretty girls.” “Thank you,” she said, his words giving her the creeps. Hopefully her curt smile would end the conversation. It didn’t. “How old are you, sweetheart?” he asked, leering again. “Twenty-five,” she lied. It sounded like a less sexy age than her 20. “You a virgin?” His eyes glowed amber in the light. Darcy’s stomach clenched as if she’d been punched in the gut. Fear swam through her, cold and fast. On another night she might’ve shouted at him, maybe even found a rock to throw his direction. But she was all fought out tonight. She’d had it out with Rob in the middle of Emilio’s Trattoria for all of the Hollywood muckety-mucks to see. Her adrenaline was spent and her fighting spirit fried. “That’s not a polite question,” she said, mustering her defense.

“You’re right,” he said, slapping his forehead. “As I said, I don’t often meet pretty girls down here. I forgot my manners. Are you a model?” “Actress.” “Not a famous one,” the man cackled. “Never seen you on any billboards.” “Not yet,” she said, “but I will be.” “Oh yeah?” “Yeah,” she said, projecting as much confidence as she could. The man’s questioning frightened her. It made her feel anonymous and forgettable, like someone who could be easily disappeared. Like a victim. She decided to put some space between her and the man, and invented a story to keep him away. “Look, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to wait over here until my boyfriend arrives.” “Your boyfriend, huh?” “Yes, my boyfriend.” “Lucky guy,” he said, gaps in his teeth showing as he grinned. “He know you’re here?” “I- I called him. From a payphone.” “Sure, sure,” the man said, nodding. “Not a payphone around here, but hey, if you said you called him, you called him.” “I did.” The man gave an exaggerated shrug. Darcy turned away, ignoring him, but glanced back a few seconds later to see if he’d received the message. He apparently had, minding his own business, but the rusty knife was nowhere to be seen. A second howl pierced the night, this time louder. Darcy considered returning to the car, but chose to stay put, assuming the cabin would’ve been flooded by now. She prayed for the storm—no, the night—to end. She’d started the night aglow, eager to see her fiancé, Rob, after a week apart. Handsome and square-jawed, he’d taken her in his arms when they met up at the restaurant. He twirled them both around, planting a gentle kiss on her lips as the spin ended. He even brought flowers. He’d ordered her a glass of wine for her and two-fingers of scotch for himself, then regaled her with stories of life as a Hollywood agent in New York City. She’d never been. The only America she’d seen was her home state of Indiana, Los Angeles, and the bus stops in between. Darcy noticed the first crack in his story right after their appetizers arrived. Rob slipped and said, “When I got back on Thursday-” “I thought you got home today,” Darcy interrupted. “Friday.” “Sorry,” he said, slapping his forehead like the homeless man had, “been a long week.” Darcy assured him it was no problem. Everyone’s brain got a little fuzzy after all that travel, she rationalized. She waited until his steak arrived before she asked him the question that’d been burning in her lungs all night: “So did you tell Marty about me?” Rob chewed his steak a few too many times for her liking. She’d waited a week to hear whether he’d told the Broadway producer about her. Marty was casting a new show, and Rob was supposed to offer her up as a leading lady. “I did, yeah,” he said, his eyes fixed on his steak. His knife splashed the steak’s juices on the white tablecloth as it sawed through the meat. “But he’d already cast the part.” Darcy’s chest tightened. Sadness, anger, depression—the cocktail of emotions crushed her lungs and squeezed the air from her. “You said you’d-” she began. “I know, babe, I’m sorry.” He returned to cutting his steak, something which shouldn’t have required nearly so much attention. Darcy’s brain began to put together the pieces. “You met with him on Monday, didn’t you?” she asked. “Yeah, straight from the airport.” “If he’d already cast the part, then why did you stay all week?” “I think you’ve got the schedule mixed up,” Rob told her. “I’m sure I do,” she said, hoping her words of sincerity sounded like anything but. “We had to stick around and do all the negotiations. You know how it is.” “So one of your other actresses got the part?” Rob winced as he swallowed a large hunk of steak. “Yeah.” “But not me.” “No, babe, I’m sorr-” “So who then?” Darcy’s chicken cutlet had gotten cold by now, untouched during her interrogation of Rob. “Uh, Katherine Cane,” Rob mumbled. “You- she- You represent her?!” Darcy demanded, yanking the napkin from her lap and slamming on the table. Her cutlery jingled, a chime alerting other tables to halt their conversation and stare. “Yeah,” Rob said, shaking his head like this was no big deal, “she needed a new agent, so she called me.” “She called you, her ex-boyfriend?” Darcy spat. “I’m an agent, aren’t I?” “And you got her the part?” “It’s not like it was my choice. I’m not the director. You know I would’ve picked you.” “I assume you’ve told her?” “About us? Of course. I’m a one-woman guy.” “No, about the part.” “Yeah,” Rob scoffed, “I told her when I got back last night.” He froze as soon as he said it. Maybe the week’s worth of travel fatigue really had caught up to him. Either way, the words were out of his mouth and they couldn’t be unsaid. Darcy tried her best to stay stoic, raising her chin high and pursing her lips. “Are you screwing her?” Darcy said, seething. “C’mon, babe,” Rob said, reaching for her hand. She pulled it off the table. “Are. You. Screwing her?!” Darcy said, her temper getting the better of her. She stood, and now she had the attention of everyone in the restaurant. “Calm down, Darce!” The rest of the conversation was a blur of insults and slander, ending with Darcy leaving and Rob saying—gesturing around the room—that no Hollywood producer will hire a dumb farm girl like her if she doesn’t turn around. When she didn’t, he grabbed her by the arm, spun her to face him, and slapped her hard across the cheek. That was when she threw her drink in his face and fled the restaurant. The valet hadn’t even asked for a tip when he returned her car, nor had he dared interrupt her as she battled to put on the convertible’s top. It wasn’t even her Cadillac. It was his. She took it because it was the only thing he really loved, aside from Katherine Cane, apparently. She’d so convincingly demanded the car from the valet that the teen didn’t ask her to prove it. That was also why she couldn’t figure out the top: She’d never done put it on before. Her flight from Emilio’s had felt like a lifetime ago. Now she was here, huddled beneath a bridge, quaking with cold and fear, only feet away from a threatening man. That was when she saw it: a massive hound, scrawny and long like a malnourished greyhound, its patchy fur matted to its back by the rain, with eyes as red as the Devil himself. Long fangs protruded from its mouth. Darcy froze, not from the cold, but from mortal terror. Something in her reptilian brain told her that this dog, whatever it was, was something unreal, something primordial. It shouldn’t exist, but yet it did. It was standing right before her. A werewolf? Surely not. It was just another dog. It had to be. The dog eyed her and the homeless man, then growled at latter. The man scooted up the wall away from the dog, extracting the knife from his pocket as he did. He rattled the weapon at the animal, but it stood its ground. When it turned its eyes—those unnatural amber eyes—toward Darcy, her fear of the animal dissipated. It was as if she knew it was protecting her, warning off the man and marking her as under its protection. The man must’ve sensed it too, as he scurried away toward the far corner of the bridge. The dog huffed the air, turned, and strode back into the rain. Darcy knew she had to follow it. Not just because she feared what the man might do to her if she stayed, but because… Because why? She couldn’t exactly tell why. She just knew she had to, as if compelled. Maybe it was her reptilian brain talking again, this time telling her to follow the dog because animals always know where to find safety. Like how the hunters back in Indiana said that, should she ever get lost, she could follow animals to a source of clean water. Or maybe something in the dog’s eyes had commanded her to. A silly thought, for sure, but Darcy didn’t find it altogether unreasonable. The dog had protected her after all, hadn’t it? The chinchilla wrap held above her head again, she followed the dog from under to bridge and into the storm. They must’ve walked a solid five, ten, twenty minutes before crossing through a copse and happening upon a large, overgrown manor. Darcy didn’t know architecture, but knew the three-story manor must’ve been expensive, or had been until it fell into disrepair. The brown beams sagged with age and the white paint had chipped away in places. She couldn’t spot a driveway in the darkness, nor did she see any egress to the rest of civilization. If she didn’t know better, this house was isolated from the outside world. The dog had disappeared by the time her eyes stopped scanning for the driveway. All she could see now was firelight bobbing and flickering through one of the manor’s windows. She approached a side door, something like a butler’s entrance, nearest the window and knocked. No answer. She knocked again and this time the door creaked open under the pressure of her knuckles. Unwilling to continue standing in the rain, she entered. “Hello?” she called, peering around a corner into the room with the firelight. A man, lanky and gaunt, stood warming himself by a fire in the mantle. He turned upon hearing her voice. “Hello to you too,” he said, seemingly as amused to have a visitor as he was surprised. He wore all black, an outfit that, like the manor, may have once been expensive but now looked faded and worn. A high collar climbed up his neck, a look which elongated his high, pale face. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I was stuck in the storm and-” “You look absolutely frozen. Come warm up.” He pointed to the fire and stepped aside. Darcy, teeth chattering, followed his direction. “I’m really sorry,” Darcy said, but again the man waved her off. “What would you have me do? Throw you back out in the rain? Please. Be my guest. Let me fix something up for you.” He walked to the nearby cabinets and scrounged through them in search of food. The warmth of the fire tickled Darcy’s toes and relaxed her, but after her experience with the man under the bridge, she kept a wary gaze on the new man in her peripheral vision.

He must’ve noticed because he said, “If you’d like to dry off, there are towels in the bathroom.” He pointed to a nearby door and added, “The door locks, if that’ll make you feel more comfortable.” It did. By the time Darcy dried herself and returned to the small butler’s kitchen, the man had arranged a plate of salted meats, cheeses, and grapes for her. Not the fanciest charcuterie board she’d seen in Hollywood, but at this moment it looked better than any of them. “Dig in,” he told her. She didn’t need a second telling. She shoveled food into her mouth while the man watched her in friendly silence. “I’m Darcy, by the way,” she said. “I followed your dog here.” “He does have a tendency to bring home strays,” he said, winking at her. She laughed. “He looked like he could use a few steak dinners. I grew up on a farm,” she said, swallowing a mouthful of prosciutto, “and I’ve never seen a dog so skinny.” “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Is this your home?” “It is. I apologize for its condition. It’s hard to do what I do these days. To be what I am.” “And what’s that?” The man pondered the question for a moment before saying, “Are you an actress?” “How’d you know?” “That’s my job: I hunt for talent. Are you finished?”

Darcy nodded, and the man laid the empty plate in the sink. “Aren’t you going to eat?” Darcy asked. “In a few minutes. I like to build up an appetite,” he said, smiling. “You must’ve had a rough night to end up out here.” “You can say that again.” “Car trouble?” “Car trouble. Boy trouble. Everything trouble.” “Well relax, kick your feet up,” he said, indicating a nearby chair, “and let all that frustration go. It’s bad for your bones.” She took the chair, but cocked a sideways grin at him as she did. “Bad for your bones?” she asked. “Never heard that one before.” “It’s an original. And it’s true. I’ve had plenty of experience.” “With bones?” she said, comfort overtaking her. Dizziness smoldered in her brain, which she attributed to the food and firelight. “Frustration taints them. You can taste the difference.” “How often,” Darcy said, yawning, “do you eat bones?” “More often than you’d think, but not often enough.” He pointed at his chest. “You called me the skinniest dog you’ve ever seen.” “I called your dog the skinniest dog I’ve ever seen,” Darcy clarified. She tried to roll her eyes at the man, but they refused to move. She was tired, and she knew she was tired, but she’d never heard of someone losing control of their eyes due to exhaustion. “Calm down,” he told her, as if sensing her rising panic. “Remember what I said about frustration.” None of his words could possibly have quelled the fear building inside her. She could feel the blood pumping through her veins. It beat a tattoo in her brain. The dizziness swirled her vision, and she would’ve vomited if the paralysis hadn’t prevented her from doing so. “What did you do to me?” she mumbled, her eyes struggling to stay open. “I just needed a place to stay dry.” “And I,” he said, crossing the room to kneel before her and look into her eyes, “just needed breakfast.”


After opening the door to the camper van, Dawn pops the deckchair out before retreating back inside to grab a blanket and her coffee. The distant crowing rouses the sun, sending out its reminder that it’s time to throw the covers off and stir. Wrapped up, her gaze drifts and she watches as the reddish-orange haze begins its ascent above the horizon and notices the aroma of citrus wafting across the field. The green grass glistens when the light rays catch the blades and, after days of continual rain, it is a welcome sight. Although the summer evokes difficult memories, moments like these need to be cherished, so she sits steadfast and takes it in.                      “Good morning,” she says to the birds, as they compete for the best solo artist award and some attention.

At least there are advantages to insomnia. Of course, this serenity delays the inevitable and when the knots resurface, another trek to the toilet block is necessary.                        Dawn’s appetite is non-existent, so she pours more coffee, ignoring the fact that the smell is making her nauseous. A drawback to rising early is having hours to ponder about the day’s events and she has a lot to dwell on today. Although five years have passed, the day she fled is still vivid, ingrained as an evil reminder of her selfishness. Unable to maintain the charade any longer, she never relented, not even to appease the hysterical cries of her children, as she dragged the suitcase to the car and drove away. You see, ever since childhood, her hidden shadow has harassed her. It ground her down. With an awareness of the devastating impact that listening to it would incur, she endured married life until the continual battle became exhausting, and she realised that only by relenting to its wishes would she discover her true self and be free.

    Even as she stood at the altar speaking her vows, a nagging doubt nestled, but she ignored it. Why? Well, the hope that travelling down the path of normality - university, career, marriage, and children - might liberate the shadow, persuaded her that saying ‘I do’ was a great idea. If she focussed her energy on the ordinary, then the devil inside would relinquish its grip and return to hell, wouldn’t it?

Summer was when the lighter, warmer nights left everyone cheerful and content. Except for that evening. Dawn remembers having to switch the living room lights on before sitting down. Coronation Street was on the television. Background noise to soak up the recriminations and dampen down the loud voices. The pitter-patter on the windows meant the volume was high, so she spoke loudly to be heard.                      “We need to talk... I need to talk.” Those inimitable words everyone dreads. Why didn’t her ex sense it? Would the shock have been as catastrophic? Who was she kidding? No straightforward way to break that sort of news exists.                      “I am doing this for my sanity,” she stated.

                    “Your sanity? What about the kids?” came the reply.                     “I am living a lie and won’t do it, not anymore,” she asserted.

                    “Then leave, but you inform the children and they can decide if they want contact with you.”

      She told them. They couldn’t come to terms with her decision, so she departed with a hope that one day fate would allow them to discover her whereabouts and give her the chance to make amends. Five years have passed, and Sophie has contacted asking to meet. As Dawn ended the call, a small gap inside her broken heart moulded itself closed, and her cheeks ached from the pleasure that hearing her voice brought. Now here, reality has hit. If anything goes wrong, then her only chance to build bridges will vanish.              She has decided on her outfit and opted for a smart-casual, but comfortable look. Her dark blue knee-length dress adorned with yellow/orange butterfly images fits the bill, as it covers her cleavage. To be on show today is not suitable. Teaming it up with a pair of plain grey leggings and black boots will complement nicely. Size 10 feet means she has trouble getting high heels but, having never been able to walk elegantly in them anyway, she doesn’t mind too much. Accessories are a pale pink scarf and matching handbag and with her hair down and a light application of make-up to feel feminine, it should boost her confidence. A lot of her family and friends severed contact when the news broke, but she expected that and prepared herself beforehand, along with the requisite to move away. It would be easier to discover her real self surrounded by strangers. Those first few months were tough. To go from a big noisy house to the solitary confines of a bed-sit was brutal. The emptiness was... Well, it’s true when they say silence is deafening. She’d escaped from one prison only to find herself in another. Now she loves her own company and relishes the reflection before her, but that wasn’t immediate.                      A network of people assisted her. A charity organised some accommodation and helped her secure employment. In her old life, she taught maths at a secondary school. It was inappropriate to continue in that profession, so her new position is in retail. Most of her colleagues are understanding, but a minority of harsh critics exist and vent their opinions. The realisation that eradicating the narrow-minded views of some will never happen means she has developed a thick skin. As she strengthens, so do her survival skills.

                       As well as Sophie, she has a son, Sam. Sophie was fourteen when she left, but Sam was only nine. It was a difficult enough situation for her to comprehend, so she knew her son would struggle. Throughout it all, her mum’s loyalty hasn’t wavered. She has provided her with snippets about the kid’s progression, even throwing the odd photo in too. Although that won’t compensate for physically being there, it was better than nothing. It irks that she doesn’t know how their personalities have developed. Has their anger towards her affected them? Is who they should have been and who they are down to the decision she made? These are questions she may never receive the answer to.                       With an hour until departure, she fills the time by finishing the photo album. It’s for Sophie (if she wants it), and she has filled it with images of her evolution. Her therapist’s advice was that picturing the before and after would be beneficial for her mental health. It has. She’s had a lot of therapy, had her head thoroughly examined and all decisions scrupulously questioned and dissected. But, if she is honest, regrets have never manifested.

                        The rendezvous is at the local coffee shop and Dawn worries about walking past her daughter. The most recent photograph is from her sixteenth birthday and, although from only a few years ago, what if she cannot spot her? She knows Sophie will have trouble picking her out.                         The cloudless still skies make the walk to town extremely pleasant. The reflections of sunlight on the puddles beam brightly, but she has her umbrella just in case. She glances into the windows as she saunters by. Yes, she is happy with her outfit choice. Okay, let’s go. Let’s do this.

                      As she approaches the coffee shop, a young lady stands outside. She has blonde hair and a unique prettiness about her. It’s Sophie. Dawn’s instinct has kicked in. A parent knows their child. She pauses and takes a deep breath. All her fears that this could end up as a disaster resurface. A need to visit the bathroom hits. Damn! Positive thinking. She must have positive thinking.

                      She leans against the wall and tries to recall the calming exercise her therapist taught her… in, 2, 3, out, 2, 3... The booming in her chest recedes. Yes, she is ready. With head held high, Dawn crosses the road and, for some unexplained reason, she waves. She doesn’t know why... Of course she does... that gesture will let her daughter figure out it’s her. Sophie stares - probably contemplating who this mad person is - and steps forward, holding her hand above her eyes. Is she praying this lunatic is waving at someone else? No, a big, beaming, broad grin appears as Sophie’s arm moves level to her shoulder and hovers in the air. A good start.

Dawn halts. She has given little thought to their greeting. In her head, they are already drinking coffee and chatting. Now face to face, she can’t figure out her next move. Will hugging be acceptable? The person there is definitely her daughter. The deep blue eyes, the dimple in her chin and the gap in her front teeth all belong to Sophie.

                        “Hello,” she says.

Sophie shuffles forward, smiles and extends her arms before proffering a kiss on each cheek. After standing back she replies “Hello Dad, good to see you”.


The rhythm of the dryer reminded me of industrial metal. Seated on the blue plastic chairs under the cool white glow of fluorescent lights, I closed my eyes and imagined Trent Reznor sitting backstage waiting to come on. The squirt of water into one of the washing machines added to the symphony, and the increasingly manic whir of the rapid cycle brough the tempo up a notch.

The laundromat was empty except for me and one old guy who was sitting on the opposite side of the room. I doubt he was expecting a Nine Inch Nails gig, but you never know. He wore one of those peaked caps that old Englishmen wear in films, and a collared shirt that was buttoned to the very top, making his neck look all wrinkled like the part of a chicken thigh where it meets the arsehole. Not a typical fan I thought, though his right foot was tapping in time with the washing machine so I could have been wrong. It was hard to tell.

He noticed I was watching him. I nodded and offered that familiar expression that kind of says a polite 'hello' but is also kind of a polite 'fucking leave me alone'. Sort of half smile, half lips pursed together. I looked down at my feet and watched as they tapped out the rhythm of the drier. He wasn’t going to like what was coming but I needed it. I couldn’t find my muse without it. I walked to the washing machine. 17 minutes left. That meant that I had about 12 minutes before Trent would appear. The live performance would go for almost five minutes. The world would disappear, and I would be absorbed in the sounds of the machines around me. The man in the peaked hat would probably leave. They usually did. For now, he simply looked at me with an expression of pure confusion as I applied black eyeshadow. Another man waddled in wearing flip-flops and a singlet that was about a couple of sizes too small. I looked up and gave him the pursed lip look of recognition and he returned the same and shrugged. I bet it was the eyeshadow.

I hadn’t always been a fan of Nine Inch Nails but I’d noticed one night while I was waiting for my load to finish that when I really paid attention to the rhythm of the machines my mind seemed to clear and left room for something else. Inspiration. And it happened that it reminded me of Nine Inch Nails. Trent became my muse. Twelve minutes. Seven minutes to go. Waddling singlet man had decided not to sit next to me or peak hat man, and had instead sat outside on one-and-a-half chairs under the neon laundromat sign. It was time for me to get changed. There isn’t really any privacy in a laundromat. I guess most of the time there isn’t really a need for privacy since most people are there simply to wash the clothes they have worn already. Not me. I hadn’t yet worked out why I needed to get changed at the laundromat but I had tried it a few times and it wasn’t the same. I needed to walk in wearing whatever I had been wearing on that day. I needed to sit and listen to the machines. I needed to wait for the familiar buzz of washing machine number 14 as it reached a crescendo of spinning. Then I needed to get changed.

I stood up and looked at old peak hat man. “I’m really sorry for what is about to happen,” I said, prompting a look of fearful bemusement. I assured him that he was not in any danger and, somewhat surprisingly, he stayed sitting right where he was, pulling his laundry basket just a little closer to his feet. I pulled off my jeans, throwing them onto the floor in front of me, then I reached over my shoulders and lifted my shirt. I saw myself in the mirror to my right and was momentarily embarrassed by the thick coat of middle-aged grey hair on my back. “The show must go on,” I whispered to myself as I threw off my underwear and stood momentarily naked before the old man who was doing an unconvincing job of pretending not to notice what was happening.

My leather pants stuck to my thighs as I tried like a man possessed to put them on as quickly as possible. I danced across the tiled floor, hopping up and down as I heaved one leg up, inch by inch. I almost fell over and steadied myself against the wall. Peak hat was now watching me with his mouth slightly open. I thought I saw him mouth the words, “what the actual fuck?” I got the pants on and then my slightly moth-eaten shirt. I was ready. The drier reached the downbeat of its second last spin cycle and settled again into a rhythmic pulsing beat as the drier maintained a steady hum. “You let me violate you.” I began to sing. Now was Trent’s time to shine. “You let me desecrate you.” Perfectly timed with the beat of the washing machine. “You let me penetrate you.” Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. “You let me complicate you.” Old peak hat man stood and walked out as I danced across the tiles towards the door where w-waddles was sitting. I bent down to and put my face close to his. “I broke apart my insides.” He pulled away sharply and gave a look of absolute horror as “help me” spilled out of my mouth. “I’ve got no soul to sell.” I was in a trance. Up the road I could see red and blue lights. They did not stop me from my performance. “I want to fuck you like an animal”.

Waddles got up and walked, then ran, away from the Laundromat. “I want to feel you from the inside.” I was in my zone when the police officer tapped me on my shoulder and I span around, a man possessed, and spat into his face, “I want to fuck you like an animal!” And then I was tasered. I came to in a watchhouse cell, still in my Trent outfit, sore and a little broken inside. I sat on the side of the small bench on the eastern wall and pulled out a notebook and pen I had stuffed into my right sock and began to write. The ritual had worked its magic. Trent had worked his magic. The rhythm of the dryer reminded me of industrial metal…


TW: suicidal ideation It was all but a dream to some.

But to me, every bit of it is vividly engraved to the back and ends of my mind. I remember your figure perfectly as the hands of the ocean brings you towards me. I remember the scorching sand burning through my skin as I ran towards you. The contrast of the warmth in your smile as the coolness of the water splashes through my clothes.

I remember you.

Every habit and manner you sport from the first day that we met. How you talk about your dreams like no one else does. You were everything but lost. The sparkle in your eyes are as cloudless like all of the days that I was with you.

You were a charisma.

I used to stay awake at night full of doubt and uncertainty, but knowing that I have you to look forward to the next day, lulls me to sleep. There wasn’t a sleepless night knowing that you were better than the dreams that comfort me in slumber.

You made my world turn.

You kept me grounded even when days seemed so wicked and relentless. Barging into life with a pack full of smiles and cheers. Even when rain mercilessly pours down, cancelling everything we’ve prepared for the day. You would laugh. You would look up at me with adornment on your face and brighten up the day.

You were vast.

Like the ocean that roars into the night as we stare off into the darkness. When the line where sky meets the water disperses into oblivion. You would talk about the beauty within the turmoil of the ocean whereas other people would’ve been afraid of. The storm and rage that the calm sea holds during the day. You saw it.

But I was blind.

I remember you. As lucid as the day you left me. I should’ve seen you… looked at you. I should’ve paid attention. That the sparkle in your eyes weren’t encouragement for me to take. They were a silent plea for help. That the warmth in your smiles were there to tell yourself that you’re okay.

I should’ve listened to you.

Rather than listening to the erratic heartbeats that I had, I should’ve listened to the pain in your voice. As you spiritedly empathized with the ocean, you were pouring out yourself. I should’ve listened. Then I should’ve known that the storm wasn’t coming from the distance but beside me. That the screams of your own are louder than the waves crashing along the shore. More powerful than the current that people feared.

I should’ve known.

You were drowning. Longing for rest and utopia in a world seemingly forsaken by the sun. You were begging for me. Asking me for help just as I was clawing for survival. Clinging on to you for air when I was dragging you further into the place you were asking to be saved from.

“You were everything but lost”

I was wrong. You were everything, but lost. Your tears weren’t shed and your heart was locked. You were letting me see right through but I saw my own reflection as I stared at you. It wasn’t a mirror but a door. You were seeking to be found but I never looked your way. Now there’s nothing left for me to hear. Nothing left for me to see, but myself muttering the words, “I’m sorry”. My world fell apart and there was nothing I could do but let the ocean swallow my tears and torment as I remember everything you had to offer.

You made my world a better place not knowing that I’m destroying yours. It wasn’t fair. No, it wasn’t. But it also wasn’t fair that you poured out to me not knowing what to do with the ripples of your waters.

 The day that I met you, everything was so clear. The sun was shining bright and the future lies ahead. I thought you would be there with me. Sitting cozy with the comfort of the sea. Repeatedly caressing the heat away. I remember you perfectly, the figure of you emerging from the sea as the water brings you to me. The way that you would adore them with longing. Just like how I long for you now.

You were a liar.

I shouldn’t be alone right now regretting everything. It should’ve been you. It should’ve been you missing me when I finally succumbed to the pitting screams of my soul to end everything. You dragged me from my sea of melancholy only to leave me drowning in an ocean. It should’ve been you who’s sleepless from the nights that chip away the rest of my being as I replay you in my mind.

I wished I never met you.

If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. I would’ve given up. You took away the only escape I long for and now you rest along with the stars that mockingly shines in the night. Reminding me of your smiles. The glimmer of tears you never shed as you bottled everything up.

I remember you.

I remember your words as you long to be one with the water. In a deafening serenity as it embraces your body, lulling you to eternal sleep. A dream you yearn for as we stare into the night. I should’ve known that you weren’t talking figuratively. That maybe you really wanted to disappear. Then we wouldn’t be in this situation right now, with you slumbering into the night and you vividly engraved into my mind. You made me want to live even when you felt like dying.

Now I know.

           I never did fully understand you. Now I’m left here all alone, staring at the stars, wishing you were me instead. You were longing for so long and at last you’re with the one you truly desired. In the holds of the freezing trenches of the night. Slowly being swallowed by the ends of the ocean.

Where you long.