there's a ripped bedsheet on the back of heather's chair in the kitchen and if she's surprised to see you, she doesn't show it. her hair is damp, dark, makes you think of running your fingers through it, snagging on knots like clotted blood, taking the cigarette from her mouth and dragging on it. you do the last one, if only to busy your hands, if only to occupy yourself with something besides the scent of her, clean and thick in the air. she's dressed. immaculate, like a painting of herself, flesh-and-blood abandoned for the starched white shirt tucked into her slacks, a devil's bargain where she came out on top. the only sign of life is the unkempt edges of her short hair, damp and tangled, framing her face like a halo, the crown of thorns; she regards you with something curious and lukewarm as you smoke.
you don't ask what's that and you don't ask what did bunny mean at dinner i didn't even know she read the bacchae and you don't ask where were you last night because i heard the back door open and i thought it was someone going out to smoke but the door didn't open again you don't have to tell me but- because you've slid into the seat across from her and she's kissing your knuckles and it takes the breath from your lungs, easy as anything. one-two punch. you drag on the cigarette and a cough stutters up to your throat and you pin it there, hold it still.
she's watching you, even as she holds your hand in hers and kisses it softly, as the buzz of your cigarette comes in waves. the river lapping at ophelia.
YOU ARE READING
nullius creaturae expers
Mystery / Thrillershe's a living corpse with one eye unfocused and rolling in the socket, the scar below her bangs puckered and ugly. she's something horrible and lovely and you are sick with want. her hair is damp, dark, makes you think of running your fingers throu...
