The antagonist lingers half-eyed and pearlescent over the dead fish. She forks every bite without
a sound, a killer without wonder. Still, she looks at you when you look at her. She is fleshy and
nerveless, a killer without embarrassment, glittering naked shoulders and neck.

Your story is a pit, full of objects. The first is an embrace flung in a limestone parking lot—little
white rocks crunch under the conjoined weight. The last is a deflated apology muttered in the
shadow of hands and mouths.

The plot features no flowers of blood splatter; its violence blossoms in the sudden discovery that
her small mouth fits your words. The climax comes when her skin stops shining and she opens
her face again and can no longer see you.