He shot the bullets from his toy-gun and they hit nothing but my chest and neck. I think he was trying to get my attention. There was no need. I was always coming for him; I never would have stopped.

He tripped on his own feet and fell flat on his back and there was surprise in the arch of his brows and something else there, too. I couldn’t determine what. I bent over him to look for the answer in his eyes but he threw them somewhere else, rolling marbles, electric blue.

I caught them afterwards, after we embraced, though they had lost some of their brilliance then–faded blue jeans. But first, the embrace: breaking open the flesh of the overripe apricot under his chin to suck in the hot copper hidden there. He jerked, entranced, wordless in the rhythm of passion. I held him against the path I had beaten in search of him. My mouth told him the secrets of my longing. Long lungfuls of air escaped his lips in amazement at my devotion.

I held my beloved close until he awoke. His eyes fixed upon me then, blue jays returning to the nest. In them, I saw dusk becoming nightfall. In them, I stepped into the coldest pockets of the ocean. In them, I saw reflected the cavernous enclaves of myself.

Dean Hel is a horror writer based in Houston, Texas. They are currently at work on a novel. Contact them at dean.hel.writer@gmail.com.