Smile more, they say

Attitude makes all the difference

My numb mouth stretches into a curve

Authentic as a thumbnail print

Hanging beneath two black dots

In a bright yellow circle

Drawn by a child's blunt stub of crayon

Change your outlook

Choose to be happy, they say

I gather my blessings

Counting them like shiny coins

I barely feel the weight of them

In my slow and clumsy hands

Behind my ribs hangs an old muscle

Exhausted and riddled with holes

It can hold onto nothing

Except the clots of darkness

That cling with minuscule claws

You don't need pills, you need

Sunshine and rainbows, they say

Tell me

Can a sunny attitude

Reknit broken bones?

Maybe if you practice gratitude

Your cancer will go away

I guess I'm just a grump

It must be my fault

If I keep turning my frown upside down

Will I start wanting

To wake up in the morning?

I must have chosen

To live in this glass box

Where no warmth can touch me

Get out more, they used to say

Force yourself to have some fun

Be with your loved ones

But by now

They've stopped calling

Stopped trying

Do they suspect it's terminal

Or contagious?

I perform my own autopsy

Slicing open chilled flesh

Sorting through tangles

Of black ribbons

Of meat and tendon

Trying to find the place

Where sorrow hides

If the sadness could be revived

At least it would mean I cared

That I felt something

Anything

I'm sorry

I didn't mean

To bring you down

Why do we want fairy tales

When falling in love is always

The End?

So charming, the day I found you, my Prince

Eyes meeting in a crowd, just like the stories

Sparks and rapid pulses

Fumbling words

Fumbling hands

Finding strength in one another

We defied the invisible barriers

That stood in our way

Held strong in support of love

Fought together

Loved fiercely

United

This would be the end of a love story

A happy one

If the story ended there

But

It was only the start of a life

Shiny new trinkets may last a while

Keep you happy for carefree years

But somewhere down the line

They lose their shine

And there you are

Dulled

Forgetting what it was

To be in love

Days no longer built upon romance and thrill

But of dishes and laundry

Frustration and ennui

Are we still lovers

Are we still partners

If months slide by when all we do

Is fight or fuck

Or ignore one another?

We show the world our fairy tale smiles

Still such a cute couple, they say

Even after all this time

But inside I'm thinking of

The dirty plates all over the house

The milk forgotten on the counter

The lumber and screws left in the driveway

The clothes you borrowed and spoiled

The promises you forgot

I think of your wandering eye

The times you didn't notice my tears

The arguments I couldn't win

Because it was more important for you

To make a point

Than to acknowledge the validity

Of my pain

That infuriating habit you have

Of forcing every emotion

Through logical analysis

To obsessively define

And debate

And quantify

Until I just want to go numb

Are you likewise thinking of my failures?

Of my sharp and thoughtless words

My impatience and rigid expectations?

Are you thinking of how I brush you off

Turning to mindless entertainment

Or perpetual writing

Rather than listening to what you want to tell me?

Does it bother you when I write sweet poetry

For everybody but you?

Have I hurt you, my Prince,

As you have hurt me?

Once upon a time

We stood strong against a barrier

That tried to tell us we shouldn't be together

Here we stand again

Against a different barrier

That place of stagnation and resentment

That triggers the decay of so many unions

Surrender is the path of least resistance

But we are still here

Eyes wander and imaginations stray

Boredom numbs once passionate hearts

Perpetual frustration corrupts perspective

But you are still next to me at night

As I am next to you

And now we are ready

To turn over and reach for each other

We are still alive

To connect instead of fight

To make love instead of fuck

We need only climb out of our distracted minds

And remember how

We thought true love happened long ago

When eyes met in a crowd

And sparks exploded

But true love is now

When we're jaded and wounded

Impatient and fractious

When the dishes and laundry pile up

Into mountains that threaten to bury us

True love is now

Because each day we choose it

Each morning and night we choose one another

In all our imperfection and mess

My prince

You drive me crazy

And sometimes you hurt me

I hate your messes and your distractions

I hate your debates and stubborn logic

And the way you always need to make each mistake

In your own infuriating way

But I love you

I love you because we are both so imperfect

Because I know you're always trying

And you frustrate yourself most of all

I love you because you still want me

Still like me best

Still come home to me

And because you're too dumb to ever tell me a lie

Or keep a secret

I love you because you want the best for me

And empower me to stand up for myself

Even against you

Especially against you

This is love

It's a choice we make

A battle we fight

Each day

Standing fast against the tide

Of bitter reality

Of numbing practicalities

Love isn't an attraction

A transient flutter

A pretty flower

Love is these bare and raw bones

Left after many years of merciless life

Have worn everything else away

It isn't so charming

But it's real

And it's ours

“Sixteen... seventeen... eighteen,” I whispered under my breath. Locating my row, I plunked down into seat ‘B’ with a sigh and dropped my backpack onto my shoes.

“You should stow that in the overhead compartment,” said a little voice nearby, and I turned, startled, toward the occupant of seat ‘A’, whom I somehow missed noticing before. She wore a white blouse and a grey skirt that camouflaged with the seat. What sort of little girl dresses like that? I wondered. It looked like a uniform. She had a stuffed bear tucked under one arm, a stern-faced character that looked like a reproduction of an antique bear, the kind with a long, pointed snout and no fur. Its limbs were stiff and unfriendly, not at all cuddly like I thought a bear should be.

I put in an effort to smile. I’d never been comfortable around children.

“I thought I’d keep it under the seat... easier to get at,” I explained, kicking my bag under the seat in front of me.

The girl reached into the pouch in front of her and pulled out the dog-eared airline safety manual. I watched as she studied it soberly for a few minutes. She glanced up at me finally.

“It’s important to know these things.”

I nodded my agreement. “So... are you flying alone?” I asked.

“Yes. I always do.”

“You do a lot of flying then?”

“I suppose.”

She didn’t seem to want to discuss the matter further, so I gave up on the small talk and sat back in my seat, shutting my eyes until the plane started to move. For lack of anything else to do, I watched the flight attendant demonstrate the safety procedures as we began to taxi toward the runway. I took a deep breath and smiled, feeling the exciting press of force against my chest as the plane built up speed, and then lifted off. I watched out the window, over the little girl’s head, as the airport steadily shrank from sight.

“My name’s Hetty,” she said, smoothing out the wrinkles of the safety manual and tucking it back into its pocket.

“That’s an unusual name.”

“I suppose it is nowadays.”

I grinned at the girl, trying not to laugh at her. She probably had older parents, the kind that didn’t have the energy to play with her. She was a miniature grown-up.

“I’m Chris,” I offered.

“That’s a very... usual name,” she said, smiling proudly at her wit. I laughed politely and shook her hand as she offered it.

“So how old are you?” I asked.

“I don’t really keep track anymore.”

I chuckled silently. “Yeah... after six, it all becomes kind of a blur.”

Hetty folded her hands neatly in her lap, her bear still tucked under one arm. It looked out of place there, as if a mere affectation of childhood. Its black button eyes glared at me. I shivered and looked across the aisle to see who was on my other side. A sixtyish man sat alone, his hands gripping the armrests tightly. The airsick bag peeked out of the pouch in front of him, and he seemed to be staring at it with intent. I decided I was satisfied with the neighbour I had been assigned.

“So,” I began again, “flying alone isn’t scary for you? I think I would have been pretty scared, at your age.”

The corners of her mouth turned up smugly, as if at some private joke. “I’m not scared,” she said, and I knew she wasn’t lying.

Soon the flight attendants began serving drinks. The man across the aisle, now looking a bit pale and sweaty, ordered straight vodka, and his hand trembled slightly as he took it.

“And for you?”

“Would a white wine be possible?” I asked.

“Certainly.” She poured the drink, and then moved on to the girl beside me. “What would you like to drink, sweetheart?”

“Apple juice, please. No ice.”

I watched the drink as it was passed in front of me—only a shade yellower than mine. Two tiny packets of pretzel sticks were dropped onto our tray tables, and the cart moved on. I let my mind settle into a haze, slowly sipping my drink.

“Let’s trade,” Hetty said.

I nursed the small plastic cup of apple juice mindlessly for a few minutes before it occurred to me as strange. I turned to face Hetty; she sipped contentedly.

“Wait... you shouldn’t be drinking that!” I exclaimed, wondering where my head had been when I agreed to the trade. “Here, take your juice.”

She glared at me darkly and took her cup back, handing me mine. “Tasted rather cheap anyway,” she muttered. “Give me your pretzels.”

I passed her the package and finished off my drink in a few gulps.

Half an hour into the flight, the man across the aisle used his airsick bag. I tried not to stare. Hetty giggled quietly into her hand. I turned to her, shocked. She beckoned me to come close. I leaned down to let her whisper in my ear:

“That man is going to die next Thursday.”

I swallowed hard, wishing I had another drink. And what happened to my pretzels? “Why would you say a thing like that?” I finally whispered back.

“Because it’s true.”

“Yeah?” I said in a challenging tone, starting to be angry with the girl. “And when am I going to die?”

She studied me in the same serious way she had studied the safety manual. “Not for a while. I don’t know exactly. But it’ll probably be cancer.” She smiled widely at my astonishment. “Do you think I’m strange?”

“To be honest, I do.”

“You just don’t understand me yet. But you’ll get there.” She lifted up her bear in both hands to face it eye-to-eye. “Just like Teddy. He understands me. He never complains.”

“Well, your bear is a little strange too,” I muttered, closing my eyes.

I woke when the pilot announced we were about to land. Hetty pulled out a little paper bag of mints from her skirt pocket and popped one into her mouth. She offered me one and I took it, sucking hard on it and swallowing frequently to clear my ears.

The plane touched down, taxied to its gate, and then the passengers began to unstrap themselves and gather their belongings. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and shoved my way into the crowded aisle. I was faintly aware of Hetty following me as I migrated with the others toward the baggage claim. I yawned silently, watching the hypnotic procession of luggage going round and round the carousel. Finally I located my duffel bag and grabbed it before it could pass me by. I turned to leave, but Hetty stopped me.

“Wait!” she called.

“Oh... sorry,” I murmured, glancing at my watch but not really seeing the time.

Hetty seized a tiny brown suitcase and set it down on the floor, opening it up to check its contents. “You never can trust those baggage handlers,” she explained. Satisfied, she stuffed her bear into the case and latched it shut. Taking its handle with one hand and offering me the other, she stared up at me expectantly. I took her hand and we left the baggage carousel.

The man who had been sick on the plane looked at me and then at Hetty, staring at her with wide eyes. I pulled her closer to my side. She grasped my hand tighter, and we walked together toward the exit.

* * *

This was originally written c. 2007, in answer to the hypothetical question, 'What if a child abducted an adult?'

Come live with me and be my boo

And I shall take good care of you

Making sure you take your pills

And helping you with all the bills

And we will make up silly songs

Have late night Netflix marathons

We'll giggle at my boisterous cats

And try on ridiculous hats

I'll make you up a cozy bed

The softest pillow for your head

With fluffy blankets wrap you snug

All night nestled within a hug

I'll make you cookies, pies, and cakes

Apologize for tummy aches

Atone for them with healthy meals

Care for your body as it heals

We'll find our own favourite spots

Be lost together in our thoughts

The birds and breeze the only sounds

As we weave dandelion crowns

I'll take you shopping as you please

And sing you lovely melodies

If these delights appeal to you

Then live with me, and be my boo

Officer Cash knew next to nothing about the Bailey case when he pulled up to the tiny house at the end of the gravel road. The social worker was already there, a thirtyish woman almost as tall as he was, with straw-colored hair pulled into a sensible ponytail. Knowing CPS folk were invariably overworked, jaded, and hated to waste time, Cash didn't want to make her repeat herself. He took quick notes on his phone as she gave him a rundown of the case.

Owen Bailey was not quite three years old. His mother, Kara Lee Bailey, was still a teenager. Tansy Bailey, a grandmother at 35, was considered the legal guardian. Both women were known to police, and CPS had been building a file on Owen since he was born in the backseat of a 1989 Corolla out behind Liquor Larry's. Premature, undersized, and showing signs of partial FAS, the infant was destined for assorted developmental delays and disabilities, but Kara Lee, well known in the community as a "party girl", had nonetheless decided she wanted to keep him, and, with her mother's support, nothing could stop her from doing so.

Reports from neighbors and acquaintances suggested that Tansy Bailey was not sufficiently present in the home, and that Kara Lee was not responsible enough to look after a small child, particularly one that might have special needs. There were reports that Owen was left alone with the family dog for hours at a time from the age of two, and that he was often filthy and bruised. Other reports claimed Owen was left to wander the neighborhood with the dog. It seemed a clear case of neglect, and Jill Mullins, the CPS representative, was anxious to intervene before Owen was seriously injured or went missing.

Cash could tell that Mullins was a fearsomely determined lady, and her principal reason for requesting a police presence for today's visit was not for her own protection, but to give her potential legal grounds to take the child out of the home immediately. Normally a court order would be necessary to seize a child, but, according to Mullins, that would take "too damn long", and she trusted Cash would back her up with an exigent circumstances report. She was aware her actions today could put her at risk of a lawsuit from the family, but there was no hesitation in her step as she slogged through the unmown grass toward the front door, stepping over beer cans and dog shit on the way.

A disheveled young man in rumpled boxers opened the door a few inches, squinting at the late morning sun.

"What's this about?" he demanded in a weak, hoarse voice. "We're not making noise, and we're not doing drugs."

"Sir, I need to speak with Tansy or Kara Lee. Are either of them home?"

The man glanced over the woman who addressed him. "You're not a cop," he realized.

"No, I'm with Child Protective Services," Mullins replied.

The man's guarded expression weakened. He glanced back over his shoulder before dropping his head and slinking out onto the front stoop to join them. "This is about Owen," he mumbled. His eyes flicked up, cutting between the social worker and the cop. "Look, Kara's not going to win any Mom of the Year awards, but she's not a monster. I know you're probably gonna take him away from her, and please don't tell her I said this, but it's for the best. Just don't arrest her, okay? She's got her problems, but that kid... there's something seriously freaky about that kid."

"Sorry, who are you?" Mullins demanded. "The boyfriend?"

Rubbing the back of his neck, the young man once more dropped his head, avoiding their gazes. "Well, sort... uh, yeah, I've been seeing Kara. I'm not Owen's dad, if you were wondering. It's not real serious. We argue a lot. About Owen. I'm James. James Rucker."

As Cash continued to record information, Mullins scrutinized the young man. "Did you call in a report to CPS, Mr. Rucker? I have a record of an anonymous tip from a male caller making claims of some pretty worrisome circumstances within this household. This individual would have had to be in the home observe these circumstances."

Rucker's face and neck flushed nearly crimson. "Fuck. If Kara knew..."

"She doesn't have to know," Mullins assured him.

"Thank you!" Rucker exhaled, and raised his eyes once more. "They're not abusive, Kara and her mom. Yeah, they're not watching him 24/7, but what parent can even manage that? I swear, there's something seriously wrong with this kid. I said when I called that he eats and drinks out of the dog dishes, but don't take that to mean he doesn't get fed or whatever. He goes around with the dog and does what he wants to do. You can talk to him, and he hears, but it's like he refuses to acknowledge people exist. He's just off in his own world. Dog world. But not just dogs, either. He brings all these critters inside."

Mullins paused to glance over some paperwork, and then narrowed her eyes at the young man. "There's mention in the report of a coyote having been in the house at some point. Are you sure it wasn't just one of the neighborhood dogs?"

"Lady, I know it sounds like bullshit, but I used to work for Animal Control. I know the difference between a dog and a coyote. It doesn't make any sense according to coyote behavior, but I got up one morning and there they were--Owen, the dog, and this fucking coyote, running around the living room like three puppies. This coyote looks up at me for a sec, and dashes out the backdoor. It wasn't crazed, or rabid. It was just... playing. I told Kara, but she acted like it was nothing weirder than a raccoon passing through the backyard."

The front door swung open to reveal a teenage girl with mussed, bleach blonde hair and dark hollows around her sleepy, bloodshot eyes. She wore nothing but an oversized tee-shirt, and had obviously been wearing makeup yesterday that hadn't been washed off. "What's in the yard...?" she slurred, the final word transitioning into a loud yawn. When she noticed the visitors, and specifically Jill Mullins, her eyes widened with recognition. Much more alert now, she took a step back from the doorway and turned to go back into the house, yelling, "Owen! Bucky!"

Rucker hurried in after her, followed by Mullins and Cash. They converged in the living room, where no one was watching a nature program playing on the television. Kara Lee turned it off and once more screamed for Owen and for Bucky, who Cash assumed was the family dog.

"The fucking backdoor is open," Rucker pointed out, flopping down onto the sofa with a sigh. "They've wandered off again."

The girl wrung her hands and looked up at the social worker and the cop, her mouth working to form syllables. "I swear to God, he was just here!" she exclaimed, breaking off with a sob.

"Kara, look at me," Mullins said in a clear, authoritative voice, standing directly in front of the crying teenager and attempting to make eye contact. "Are you under the influence of anything right now?"

"No, I swear!" the girl burst out between heaving sobs. "We had a few drinks last night, and I'm hung over, that's all. Why do you always think I'm a fucking crack whore or something?"

"I don't think that," Mullins replied, keeping her tone calm and steady. "We have spoken several times about the necessity of keeping a close eye on your son, but your mother is his legal guardian. Where is she now? Working?"

"Yeah," Kara Lee said in a thick, husky voice as she wiped her eyes, smearing yesterday's makeup. "She gives him his cereal in the morning, and puts on Animal Planet for him. Then she wakes me up and I watch him while she's at work. I must've fallen back asleep."

"And how long ago would that have been?"

"Like, just before eight."

Cash winced and glanced at his watch. "That's more than three hours ago. I'm gonna go look for the kid while you guys talk."

Mullins nodded her approval, and Rucker offered to help once he was dressed. Cash walked a circuit around the small house, and then poked around the backyard until the young man emerged fully dressed.

"Do you have any idea where he's likely to go?" Cash asked him.

"Sometimes he goes to neighbors' houses, and sometimes he goes a little ways into the woods."

Cash studied the remains of a fence that was mostly blown down, and looked like it had been that way for years. The kid could have gone in any number of directions, and he was considering going to visit the neighbors and sending Rucker to check the wooded area behind the house, but as he gazed out toward the trees, he spotted a flash of white.

"What's that?" he wondered, hopping over a tangle of fallen fence posts and jogging over to the object.

It was a recently discarded diaper.

"Goddamn," Rucker sighed. "Kid hates to say dressed."

The pair split up, taking different routes through the woods and staying within earshot of one another as they called for Owen and whistled for Bucky.

Cash was analyzing the situation in his mind, trying to work out how much ground a naked toddler could cover in three hours, when he heard Rucker's call:

"Over here! I think I see him! There's Bucky, and...."

Cash broke into a sprint, leaping over roots and fallen branches. Rucker's abrupt, mid-sentence silence had unsettled him, causing his heart to quicken. "Is he okay? Where are you?"

"Here!" Rucker called, and, a moment later added, "Holy shit!"

The hysterical tone of the exclamation tightened Cash's innards into painful knots. He increased his pace until he'd burst through a knot of ferns and into a clearing, where Rucker was standing frozen. Cash slid to a halt, nearly losing his balance and grabbing hold of the other man's shoulder for purchase.

"What...?" he gasped, and stopped when he pointed his eyes in the direction Rucker was staring. As he caught his breath, the steady humming noise reached his ears.

At first, all he saw was bees. They swarmed around a half rotted stump that was lined inside with honeycomb. The dog, some sort of spaniel mutt, appeared from behind the stump and romped in cheerful circles, chasing the bees and showing no sign of acknowledging the men's presence. Cash blinked several times, studying a shape next to the hive, something that looked like a small shadow at first. When it moved, the shape became clearer. It was a naked baby, covered head to toe in honey bees.

"Holy shit," Cash whispered. The words trembled as they came out. He felt as if he'd just had a bucket of ice water poured over his head.

"Yup," Rucker agreed.

Deciding he had no option, Cash took a step forward.

"Are you crazy?" Rucker hissed. "That many bees could kill you!"

"I'm a little more concerned about the kid right now," Cash muttered. He moved forward with slow, cautious steps. "Owen? Can you hear me? I'm a policeman, and I'm here to keep you safe. Owen... move very slowly, and come this way."

"He's not gonna listen to you," Rucker objected.

Cash ignored him, and continued approaching the boy. The humming of the bees set his nerves on edge, and he felt phantom tickles all over his body, imagining the tiny, sticky legs of honey bees crawling across his skin, but not a single one had touched him. As he approached the hive, Cash saw the boy more clearly. He was small for an almost-three-year-old. His head was crowned with a mess of auburn curls that had never been cut. One chubby hand was reaching into the hive with a careful delicacy unusual in a toddler. Instead of grabbing at the golden comb, Owen gathered a droplet of honey on a tiny fingertip, and licked it.

"Owen," Cash exhaled. Shivers crept across his body in all directions as a few bees landed on him. He stopped moving. "Owen... it's very dangerous here and you need to come with me."

Silent and tranquil, ignoring the police officer, the toddler reached for more honey. The hundreds of bees crawling across his vulnerable baby flesh seemed likewise untroubled. Bucky, meanwhile, had come over to flop out at Owen's bare feet.

Cash stood paralyzed with disbelief as the boy squatted down to pat the dog's head. As he did so, the bees, in near perfect synchronicity, rose into the air and swarmed back to the hive. Moments later, it was as if they had never been there at all.

Taking his opportunity, Cash dropped to one knee next to the boy, looking him over. He didn't appear to have a single sting on him, although he had a few minor scratches and was in need of a bath. He reached out to take the toddler's arm and tried to turn the boy to face him. "Owen, look at me," he whispered. "Are you okay?"

The toddler's hazel eyes were bright, yet did not appear entirely focused. He looked off into the distance, avoiding Cash's gaze as he tugged feebly to free his arm from the man's grasp.

"I'm a policeman," Cash reiterated, though it was obvious that Rucker had been correct about the boy not listening. "I just want to make sure you're safe. I'm going to pick you up now."

Owen uttered a tiny grunt of protest, but did not cry out when he was gathered into the officer's arms. The dog leaped up and circled around Cash's feet, whining. Cash struggled not to trip over him as he walked over to where Rucker still stood, and together, they returned to the house.

Cash hadn't had the opportunity to hold many children, and therefore could not have identified "normal" behavior with any surety. Nonetheless, he immediately sensed there was something not right about this one. Owen did not relax in his arms, nor did he exactly struggle. Not once did the boy try to look at who was holding him. He was preoccupied with his surroundings, sometimes looking at the trees above, but otherwise looking down, reaching out for Bucky, who loped along at the officer's side, watching the child.

Mullins hurried out into the yard as they arrived, and took Owen from Cash, giving him a lookover. "Well done. Where was he?"

"Out in the woods, raiding a beehive," Cash explained, pulling out his phone and stylus with trembling hands to take more notes. "Covered in bees, and not one sting."

Mullins quirked an eyebrow, concerned, though not quite surprised.

Inside, Rucker comforted his girlfriend as she sat weeping on the sofa.

"Please don't judge me!" she wailed. "You don't know how hard it is! I tried. I fucking tried. My own kid hates me. Maybe it's my fault? I didn't even know I was knocked up until seven months! Oh god, I'm so sorry! I thought I wanted to be a mom, but it's been a nightmare. I try to love him, but he doesn't love me back. He doesn't love anyone but the fucking dog! He won't even look at me!"

Mullins and Cash made no response, allowing her to say her piece while they cleaned the worst of the dirt off of Owen and got him dressed. The silent, detached child was now putting Cash in mind of a windup toy. He didn't make a struggle, yet was ready to crawl away the moment they let go of him, as if on autopilot. For a minute, Mullins let him go, and they watched him hurry over to the dog. The child had an unusual, loping gait, not walking perfectly upright but partially on all fours, chimplike.

"What do you think is wrong with him?" Cash wondered.

"If I were to guess, some severe form of autism," Mullins suggested. "Possibly reactive attachment disorder. So, are you agreed we've got a case for immediate removal?"

Cash sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Well, 'exigent circumstances' would have to involve imminent danger of serious bodily injury to the child, and based on what I saw out in those woods, especially with the foreknowledge that this sort of thing has been a regular occurrence... yeah. Absolutely. This kid's been damn lucky, and I wouldn't risk the time it'd take to get a court order."

"That's all I need to know."

The boy's mother had calmed by the time they were ready to leave. She stood by, tears still streaming down her flushed, makeup-smeared cheeks, but she looked resigned. Cash watched Mullins cradle the boy and try unsuccessfully to make eye contact.

When Bucky tried to follow them out the front door, Rucker grabbed him by the collar to hold him back. It was only then that Owen made any noise. He stiffened in Mullins's arms and released a piercing scream, reaching out both of his little arms for his pet. Rucker wrestled with Bucky, who had begun to cry like Cash had never heard a dog cry before. It was an eerie, high-pitched noise that gave him the same cold dread he'd felt at the sight of the boy with bees crawling all over him. Rucker's earlier words echoed in his head.

There's something seriously freaky about that kid.

"You have to let him take Bucky!" Kara Lee screamed, sobbing again as she wrestled the dog away from her boyfriend. "He'll be fine without me, but he needs the dog! Can't you see he needs him?"

Released, the dog streaked after Mullins and leaped at the shrieking boy, trying to lick him between urgent yelps. Mullins appeared uncertain, but did not protest. She strapped Owen into a carseat in the back of her vehicle, and as soon as Bucky was allowed to leap in and settle beside him, both were quiet. The toddler's arms wrapped around the dog's neck, and in moments, both looked ready for a peaceful nap.

* * *

Jeff Goring hated his foster brother. They were the same age, fifteen, and he knew mom and dad expected him to be kind and helpful, but the guy was mentally challenged, and even more than that, he was freaky. It had been nearly six months, and Jeff still got teased at school over the "creepy retard" his parents had taken in. Owen had come from some kind of institution, and he didn't do regular school. He got some tutoring, but mostly worked with dad at the vet clinic. Dad said Owen was "gifted", and while Jeff could admit the guy was good with animals--freakishly good--"gifted" seemed overly generous considering he was totally vacant and didn't even talk to people.

It was Jeff's friend Carl who came up with the idea of making good use of the weirdo. Carl had aspirations of becoming a great trophy hunter, and what he wanted more than anything was to bag a bobcat. Bobcats were known to inhabit the wilderness on the outskirts of town, though they were rarely seen anywhere near civilization.

On a warm Saturday morning, Jeff and Carl packed up a few things and trailed Owen up into the hills where he spent a lot of his time when he wasn't working with Dr. Goring. He wore only an old pair of shorts, and his auburn hair was long and trailed wildly down his back.

"Who does he think he is, Tarzan?" Carl whispered.

Jeff shrugged. "Hey, Owen! Wait up!"

The two boys jogged to catch up with Owen, who paused his steps but did not look at them.

"We need you to help us, Owen," Jeff said slowly. "Like you help dad. This is my friend Carl. We're doing a project for school. A photography project, and it's for, like, wildlife conservation. You understand what that means?"

Owen's eyes shifted to the bundle of equipment Carl had slung over his shoulder.

"This is my photography equipment," Carl said, smirking. "We want to take pictures. Of a bobcat. Do you know bobcats around here?"

"Yeah," Jeff added, "we want to photograph the biggest, most beautiful bobcat, so everyone in town will see what cool wildlife we have, and want to help them. You want to help, right, bro? Can you bring us to one?"

Owen paused a while, as if thinking, but Jeff wasn't sure "thinking" was something the freak did much of. Abruptly, Owen took off into the trees. Excited, the two other boys hurried after him.

After a couple of hours of brisk hiking, Owen stopped and stood still. Jeff and Carl froze behind him, panting. Unlike the two boys, Owen didn't seem at all winded. He was lean and rangy, as any young man might be who spent as much time running, swimming, and climbing as Owen did.

"Oh my god," Jeff whispered.

Ahead of them, there was shadowy movement between the trees. A shape became distinct as the shadow emerged, padding toward them in perfect silence on large, furry paws. Owen squatted, holding out a hand to the cat, which was about half the size of a mountain lion, but to the other two boys, accustomed to house cats, it was enormous. Golden in color with dark spots, russet highlights, and a pale underbelly, the cat was striking, and looked upon them curiously with wide amber eyes. It struck a stately pose several paces ahead of them, as if inviting appreciation of its beauty. Consumed with need to possess it, Carl was already unpacking his rifle.

Jeff cut his eyes between the bobcat and Owen, praying the boy wouldn't turn around. He pushed his fingers into his ears in anticipation of the gunshot. It did little to dampen the noise, and when Carl pulled the trigger, Jeff was nearly as startled as Owen was.

From there everything happened so quickly, and with so much screaming, that Jeff could not even put together what exactly had occurred until later, in the hospital, after he'd had some time to think things over.

Carl was in surgery. They said he had lost an eye. Jeff was heavily bandaged and had needed plenty of stitches, but wasn't nearly as badly wounded as Carl was. He told the story as best he could to his parents and the police officer who had showed up at his bedside.

"The first shot didn't kill it," he whispered, and was ashamed to find that he was crying. Tears soaked into the bandages wrapped around half of his face. "Owen just went... berserk. As if he was the one who got shot. I thought I'd go deaf with the way he was screaming, and I just told Carl 'shoot again, you have to kill it, you have to kill it!' So he shot the cat dead... and everything was quiet for a second... and then like, out of nowhere, there was the bird."

"Bird?" the police officer repeated, leaning closer to the boy in the hospital bed. "You're sure it was a bird that attacked you?"

"I think it was a hawk," Jeff said hoarsely. "A fucking huge one. Huge talons. Like razors. It grabbed onto Carl's face, and he was just screaming, and there was so much blood. Then it came at me, and...." He broke off with a sob, and a hiccup. His mother squeezed his shaking hand.

"It sounds crazy, but I know he did it," Jeff sobbed. "Owen. He made it happen."

* * *

Sergeant Cash had never forgotten Owen Bailey, though it had been over a decade since the day he'd helped remove the toddler from his mother's home. He'd seen pieces in the news about Owen now and then. There were pictures on the Internet of the boy at various ages, covered with birds, surrounded by deer, and even one of him playing with a pair of black bear cubs while mama bear looked placidly on. Most people who saw and shared those pictures cried "bullshit", but Cash remembered the bees, and knew better.

He was visiting the Goring house now, where Owen had been locked in his bedroom by his foster father. Cash had a long talk with Dr. Goring, who was torn in the wake of the incident. He'd cared deeply about Owen even though the boy had never shown any sign of attachment to other human beings. He had tried to understand Owen's special needs, and to nurture his gifts. Although there was very little Goring could honestly say he understood after six months of trying to parent the boy, he'd at least been sure that Owen wouldn't hurt a fly. Now he wasn't so sure that Owen wouldn't hurt a person.

When Cash entered the bedroom, he found Owen curled into a fetal ball on his bed. The boy's bare back was to him, every knob of his spine visible.

"Hello, Owen," Cash whispered. "I'm Sergeant Cash. I remember you, from a long time ago. I'm going to sit down next to you now."

He sat. Owen made no movements.

"I remember the bees. Do you remember that? You weren't even three years old. You were all by yourself with your dog, Bucky." Cash winced inwardly, regretting mentioning Bucky at all. Certainly enough time had passed that the dog had to have passed on.

Cash noticed a book, something like a small photograph album, lying on Owen's bedside table. Dr. Goring had told him about a "communication book" Owen had, of the sort used by people with speech impairments and other disorders that affected their ability to vocalize. Supposedly Owen wasn't nearly as "retarded" as people assumed, but he only communicated when and how he chose. Cash flipped open the front cover of the book. It was a small binder packed with laminated pages. The first proclaimed, "MY NAME IS OWEN BAILEY. I HAVE A DISABILITY."

Other pages detailed where he lived, and who to contact in an emergency. There were pages of common phrases, and one that was just letters and numbers. Most pages were covered with pictograms paired with words.

Cash was startled when Owen grabbed the book out of his hands. He hadn't noticed the boy sitting up. Owen's overgrown hair formed a screen around his face, obscuring Cash's view of his expression, but he saw a few clear droplets spatter across the laminated pages of the book, and knew Owen was crying

"Can we talk about what happened in the woods?" Cash whispered.

Owen flipped pages, and tapped the word "YES" with one knuckle.

"Did those boys lie to you?"

Again Owen tapped, "YES", and then flipped to the pictograms until he'd found a picture of a camera.

"That's right. They told you they wanted to take pictures of the bobcat, yeah? But that wasn't really what they wanted to do."

Owen rocked back and forth a few times, tense with anxiety. He flipped more pages, and tapped his knuckle against a pictogram showing various weapons.

"Yeah," Cash sighed. "Owen, tell me something. Did you want to hurt those boys?"

Owen rocked, and more tears dripped onto his book. At last, he indicated, "YES", and then, even more vehemently, "I'M SORRY", which he rapped several times. Cash was unsure what to make of this situation. No court would implicate a handicapped kid in a bird attack. He wasn't even sure why he was here, but, as when the kid was being removed from his mother's home, he knew he had some responsibility to intervene, to do what might be best for the boy as well as the family.

Owen was flipping pages again. He gestured to the phrase, "I DON'T UNDERSTAND", followed by the pictogram for "people".

"Me neither, buddy," Cash admitted.

After a brief phone chat with CPS, Cash once more found himself removing Owen Bailey from his home. He was to be returned to the institution where he'd spent most of his childhood. Cash had gleaned enough from his time with Owen to know that being locked up in an institution was the last thing the boy wanted. He felt like a monster, shutting the silently crying boy in the back of his cruiser.

After a few minutes of driving, Cash pulled over to the side of a deserted road, alongside the woods where Owen preferred to spend time. He turned around to look at the anxiously rocking boy in the backseat.

"Owen," he said, "I always wondered whether I'd done the right thing, taking you away from your mom. Maybe I did, but I think I did it for the wrong reasons. When I saw you with those bees, I saw you as a child in imminent danger. Now, I think you might have been the only one of us who wasn't in any danger."

Cash sat in silence for a few minutes, thinking about doing something he knew was likely to get him into some very big trouble.

Making his decision, he got out of the car, glanced up and down the road, and pulled open the rear door, gesturing Owen to exit. Owen scrambled out, still dressed in nothing but his shorts. He looked up into the hills, and then down at the officer's boots, hesitating.

"Go," Cash whispered. "Be where you belong. I'm going to have to report you missing, but I'll give you as much of a head start as I can. Run fast, and run far."

Owen raised his head. The messy strings of auburn hair fell back, and for the first time, two brilliantly alive hazel eyes locked on the man's. The contact only lasted a moment before Owen streaked off, quick as a rabbit, and disappeared. It was all the thanks Cash could have wished for.

I believe that the world is crisscrossed all over with invisible threads. One of the strongest of these connects my heart to yours.

I believe that somewhere inside me is a space in the shape of you that has always been. You nestle in perfectly there, filling a part of me that's gone so long empty that it makes me weep to feel your presence. No one else can occupy your space.

I believe that if I smile for no reason, it must be because you're thinking of me, so I think of you often that I might bring you smiles you never expect.

I believe that when you're suffering, my sleeping mind is trying to take it from you, and that's why I get nightmares.

I believe that if I try with all my might, I can love you hard enough to erase the worst of the terrible things that have been done to you, those dark things that have clawed into your soul and refuse to let go.

I believe that we can save one another.

Lottie Sutherland first met the satyr at the little Super Valu down the road from her apartment building. She was in the breakfast aisle picking out a cereal when the noisy clip-clop of cloven hooves sounded nearby. Her mouth hung slightly open as she looked up to take in the features of the tall goatlike deity approaching her.

"Hello, my little nymph," said the satyr, with a hungry grin.

Lottie's reluctant mouth worked to find coherent syllables with which to reply. "H-have you mistaken me for someone else?" she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

The horned head shook back and forth. "Most assuredly not. Why are you so surprised?"

Licking her lips, Lottie clutched a box of Cheerios in front of her as a shield while she considered a response. "Well... for one, aren't you supposed to be... male?" Her eyes flicked up and down.

The satyr laughed, a musical sound composed of rich alto notes. It looked down at itself, and lifted both hands to weigh its heavy breasts like ripe fruits. The nipples were flushed a deep raspberry colour, and contracted to excited little peaks. Next, it slid its hands down its toned belly, and combed its fingers into the thicket of auburn curls that began below its navel and continued all the way down to those cloven hooves. At the apex of the thighs, gentle folds of flesh were just visible beneath the fur. Not a phallus to be found.

"What I am supposed to be," said the satyr, "is exactly what I want to be. Or, perhaps more accurately, what you want me to be."

"Me?" Lottie whispered. She held the Cheerios box in one hand now while her other hovered before her mouth in a demure posture. "I'm sure you must be mistaken. I'm just here for groceries."

That rich, smoky laugh sounded once more. The satyr stepped closer to her, close enough that they could smell one another. The satyr smelled of earth, wine, and sweet clover. Dumbstruck, Lottie adjusted her glasses and studied the strikingly upturned eyes. The pupils were ever so slightly elongated in a horizontal direction, and the colour around them was rich amber transitioning into green around the outer edge of the irises.

"Sweet thing," the satyr purred, reaching out to tuck Lottie's hair back behind her left ear with one delicate middle finger. "You have so much to learn."

Lottie held her breath at the touch, which left behind tiny tingles that danced and crawled around and into her ear, triggering a shiver.

"Think of me later," the creature whispered next to her tingling ear.

Lottie squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, she was alone in the breakfast aisle. By the time she'd dropped the sunny yellow cereal box into her cart, she'd already forgotten the encounter.

While she waited in line at the checkout, she thought she heard a faint clip-clop somewhere nearby, triggering an elusive moment of déjà vu. She felt a tickle just behind her left ear that made her gasp and shiver. The fifty-something man ahead of her in line turned to give her a curious look.

"Goose walk over your grave?" he asked, smirking.

"That must be it," Lottie replied with a nervous chuckle.

* * *

Slap-slap-slap-slap-slap!

Lottie's cheek was mashed against a pillow she was sure hadn't been washed in months as she submitted to the vigorous pounding, her round behind stuck up in the air the way Tony liked it. The sex wasn't super horrible, she supposed. At least it didn't hurt anymore. Although it was probably a bad sign that she was thinking more about his pillow than his dick. In fact, she was thinking of pretty much everything but his dick. Was she bored? Had she simply had enough of sex? Did Tony just really suck at it, or did she?

"Ughhh, take it, whore, take it!" Tony grunted as he hammered a last few strokes and then pulled out to finish all over her backside before flopping out beside her to catch his breath.

She sighed--was it relief?--and rolled over, her back to him. She waited silently for him to say something to her, something boyfriend-y. Something that showed he cared the slightest bit about her enjoyment. She'd never climaxed during intercourse, and she'd given up hope that she ever would. Lottie did enough reading to know that it wasn't so uncommon for women not to orgasm from penetration, but was it also uncommon for guys not to have much interest in pleasuring their women? Didn't she deserve to get as much out of sex as he did? Every time she tried to talk to him about it, somehow he ended up making her feel like she was silly to even bring it up, or like any problem was her problem, so she hadn't even tried in months. Lately she was feeling consumed by ennui. Something had to change. Maybe she needed to break it off with Tony. Or maybe she could at least try to improve things a little.

"I've asked you before not to call me a whore," she whispered.

He patted her back clumsily. "Sorry, Char. You know I forget shit sometimes in the heat of the moment."

She released another sigh. Did he really not notice how unhappy she was? Or did he just not care? "Tony... I sort of wish you'd give me a little more attention," she ventured in a small, meek voice.

"Attention?" he repeated dumbly. "How is sex not attention? I could be alone fucking my Fleshlight. Instead I'm with you."

Was that supposed to be a compliment? Lottie took a deep breath and gathered her thoughts and her courage. She'd never been good at talking about her needs, about her wants. But the longer things went on like this, the less she wanted to care about upsetting others. Didn't she deserve the same things happy, sexually satisfied people had? Whenever her friends got together and gossiped about their sex lives, she always chimed in, but mostly she ended up pretending.

"Tony," she tried again, curling up into a fetal ball, "maybe you could help me finish...? No offense, but you don't seem to put in much effort."

Tony was silent for a few moments. "I don't know how to even process that," he finally replied, an edge creeping into his voice. "No offense to you either, but when you're just lying there looking bored and taking it, I don't get how you think I'm the one failing to put in effort."

Well, maybe he had a point. Lottie chewed the inside of her cheek and debated with herself. Usually this would be the point that she'd just give up. Tonight, she decided it was time to stand up for herself: "I'm kind of thinking more like, caring about me getting more out of it," she continued. "I want to get off too."

"You know best how to take care of yourself, Char," he sighed. "I mean, you gotta understand where I'm coming from here--honestly, most of the time it seems like getting you off is like trying to crack a safe. I have no fucking clue how to go about it, and every time I think I'm close, you lose it, or my hand gets tired, or whatever."

"Um... well, do you want to lick me a little maybe?"

Tony made a disgusted noise. "Maybe if you had a shower first. I just jizzed all over you. Maybe that's some guys' thing, but I don't really want to be sucking up my own load."

"Oh, forget it!" Lottie snapped, suddenly beyond frustrated. She sat up, kicking blankets aside and grabbing her glasses from the bedside table. She wanted to be done with Tony, and his dick, and his gross bed. She wanted to be done with all of this. "Forget it, Tony. I'm done. I'm really, really done." She grabbed an undershirt from his floor and used it to clean herself up before flinging it down again.

"God, fine!" he muttered. "Maybe get yourself a little vibe or something for next time."

She let her forehead drop into her hand. "No, you don't get it. I'm done done. With all of this. With you."

He sat up and glared at her, baffled and clearly pissed off. "You fucking kidding me, Char? You're gonna dump me because you're impossible to sexually satisfy?"

"I'm impossible?" she burst out, glaring back at him as she wrestled herself into her bra. "Maybe it's you who's the problem!"

"Oh, I guarantee you I'm not the problem," he shot back, sneering. "I can give you the names of at least half a dozen chicks who've screamed my name while riding this," he grabbed his penis by the base of the shaft and wagged it back and forth, "and I didn't need to jump through hoops for them!"

"Oh, that's classy," she replied acidly, working her limbs brusquely back into the rest of her clothes. "Well, feel free to go find one of your fake shrieking sluts then if you just want to feed your ego. I'm getting out of your life right now, and good riddance!"

"Yeah, back at you!" Tony snapped. "And just FYI, you're a cow. Good luck."

Lottie paused a moment, staring back at him as her eyes began to blur with tears. Tony was hot, and built, and he'd actually been really sweet at times. But there were some moments in life one really learned a person's true colours. She couldn't believe she'd wasted nearly a year on this asshole. With a huff, she ran her fingers roughly through her hair and turned to leave his bedroom.

"Try not to stomp so loudly, fatass!" he shouted after her. "My downstairs neighbours are gonna complain about the floor shaking!"

She took a deep breath to yell something horrible back at him, but it would have been pure immaturity. Moreover, he'd hit too close to home and she didn't trust her voice not to waver. There was a time when Tony would boisterously sing "Baby Got Back" at her while gyrating his hips, and as obnoxious as it was, it made her laugh and feel desirable. It made her feel like her curves might be something sexy that turned him on, rather than a drawback. Now she wasn't a girl with "great assets" anymore--she was just a "fatass".

Lottie left his apartment building for the last time and boarded a bus for home, taking a seat well apart from any other passengers, in case she couldn't hold in her tears.

At the next stop, an elderly lady wearing a plastic rain bonnet slowly boarded, and behind her, a tall, goat-legged deity. The lady sat just behind the driver, while the satyr clip-clopped down the centre aisle until it had reached Lottie, and took the seat directly next to her. Lottie hadn't given the satyr a moment's thought since the cereal aisle at the Super Valu this morning, but now, as she stared down at the furry knee bumping against hers, she found it very familiar. She inhaled the scent of earth, wine, and clover, and shivered.

"You smell of sex," the satyr remarked. Its nostrils twitched.

Lottie's cheeks burned. "I need a shower ASAP."

The satyr leaned closer to her and inhaled deeply. "Smells like he had sex on you instead of with you."

By this time, she imagined her cheeks were the colour of overripe strawberries. It was true enough, but she could make no reply.

"Why do you not take your pleasure as you will, my little nymph?"

Lottie's nervous eyes flicked up and down the bus. No one else seemed to be noticing the naked and incongruously feminine horned deity sitting next to her. "Once again, I'm sure you're mistaken. I'm not a nymph."

"I am never mistaken when it comes to beautiful maidens," said the satyr, smiling wide enough to show teeth that no natural human had.

Lottie released a short, sharp noise, the distant cousin of a laugh.

"You doubt your beauty," the satyr noticed. "Is that why you allowed that man to take his pleasure and leave you unsatisfied?"

With a little gasp, Lottie looked up, meeting those dramatic amber-and-green eyes. Her first instinct was to protest. Despite how she'd ended things with Tony, she didn't want to believe the situation was as grim as the satyr had bluntly stated. Maybe it was that word "allowed" that was digging at her. Nearly a year with Tony, and the physical side had always been unbalanced. She could blame Tony, but for all those months, she had allowed it, and that truth was difficult to face. It shone the light of responsibility on her. Certainly she had made her feeble attempts to speak up for herself now and then, but too quickly she'd given up and told herself that she was lucky just to have someone who wanted her body. You fold like origami, her friend Melanie had quipped on occasion. How mortifying to find out how true that was, now that she could look at her relationship with Tony through the clear lens of retrospect.

"I guess I really didn't think I could do any better," she whispered.

"My dear, sweet nymph," the satyr purred. "You can have the world if you only accept that you are worthy of it."

"But I don't want the world," Lottie protested. "I want... I just...." She broke off, even now hesitating to speak her desires aloud.

"What do you want?" the satyr urged. Its smile widened, once more showing too many teeth. "Say it!"

"I want... to be happy. I want to... enjoy..."

"Enjoy...?"

Lottie's tongue was frozen for a few tense moments. "Sex," she finally whispered. "My body!"

"Yesss," the satyr exhaled next to her ear, spurring a shiver. "It is an exquisite body, worthy of worship."

Lottie leaned away from the deity and looked down at her lap, making a skeptical noise. "I think you're in the wrong era," she mumbled. "It's been a few hundred years since a body like mine has been idealized."

The satyr responded with its characteristic smoky chuckle. "I speak of worthiness, nymph, not of a culture's fleeting aesthetic whims. You have fallen for a classic fallacy if you believe the two are the same."

Worthiness. Lottie sighed and looked up to gaze out the window. Billboards swept by, advertising clothing stores and beauty products, each of them featuring tall, willowy models with cheekbones and hipbones that stuck out. Who decided what worthy was? How could she be convinced of her own worth in a society that told her each day in a hundred subtle ways that she didn't fit?

"It starts in you, nymph," the satyr said, as if she had uttered her question aloud. "Not in the eyes of others."

Rolling her eyes, Lottie heaved another sigh. She'd been hearing confidence is attractive all her life, and of course, that old you-have-to-love-yourself-first chestnut. She was going to say something about it being easier said than done, but once more, the satyr spoke first:

"Think of me later."

The whispered words filled her ear with familiar tingles. When she turned, the seat next to her was empty, or almost so. There was a postcard-sized flyer lying there, advertising a temporary exhibit at the local art museum: Rubenesque. Lottie picked it up and gazed at the central image, a small print of Peter Paul Rubens' Leda and the Swan. The titular Leda was depicted as soft, pale, and curvaceous. She was thick around the hips and thighs, with dainty hands, feet, and breasts. Her round bottom almost seemed to be the focal point of the painting, somehow even more attention-grabbing than the large swan that seemed to be forcing itself on her.

"Baby got back," she whispered to herself, and smirked, slipping the flyer into her purse. She had no memory of anyone sitting next to her.

* * *

In the hopes of shoring up her damaged ego, Lottie contacted two of her closest friends and arranged to spend some time with them. Melanie and Chloe were sweet and treated her like a princess in her time of need, bringing her ice cream, brushing her hair, and taking her shopping. Still, she felt a sense of overall disconnect, and couldn't seem to place it. She could find no fault with how her friends doted on her, but she continued to feel the same sense of underlying ennui that had plagued her during her relationship with Tony. Sexual frustration might have been part of it, though late at night in her bedroom alone, she had a fairly decent time with her own fingers for company. She pleasured herself with almost spiteful enthusiasm, as if to disprove Tony's claim that she was "impossible". She was, in fact, extremely possible. It wasn't rocket science.

She told her friends only in the vaguest sense her reasons for walking out on Tony. She didn't discuss the sex issue in detail. As bad as she felt for never being open and honest with them about her problems, she still didn't feel quite comfortable telling them how little she'd been enjoying her sex life.

The shopping trips with her friends were bittersweet. She appreciated the attention as they handed her outfit after outfit to try on, and exclaimed over how pretty she looked, but she couldn't help but feel as if no matter how well-meaning Mel and Chloe were, she still didn't fit in. They were the sort of girls who were thin and pretty and had always gotten lots of attention from boys, the sort of girls you kind of wanted to hate but they were so nice you felt bad for even thinking so. Lottie worried at times she was just faking being one of them, and that she didn't belong in the sorts of stores they took her to. Sometimes she would put on a cute top or a dress and when she faced her reflection in the mirror, an outfit that looked adorable even hanging on a drab hanger managed to devolve into a mere brightly-coloured sack on her frame. They just didn't make clothes to suit short, curvy bodies, and she felt disillusioned even as her friends sighed and gushed and told her she looked so gorgeous.

In the back of her mind she was still hearing cow and fatass.

* * *

She found the Rubenesque flyer in her purse a few days later, and made the decision to attend the exhibit by herself. Her own bodily resemblance to Rubens' Leda had stuck in her mind. It was possible she might find it empowering to immerse herself in an era when bodies like hers had been celebrated in nude paintings. She considered taking Mel and Chloe along, but she felt embarrassed at the thought of them knowing how much she craved this sort of empowerment.

Lottie went early on a Saturday morning, and tried not to pay attention to the fact that she seemed to be the only lone visitor, while the other attendees were mainly couples, or groups of friends. The paintings were a feast of flesh, all voluptuous curves inadequately swathed in barely-there scraps of drapery. Wide-hipped goddesses and other mythical ladies cavorted, lounged beneath trees, struggled in the grips of creatures or muscular men. Some were lovely, some amusing, some baffling.

One painting in particular seized her attention for reasons she could not understand. Hypnotized, she stood staring at it for at least ten minutes, unaware of the world around her. The painting, entitled Pan and Syrinx, featured one of Rubens' typical soft, full-figured ladies, accompanied by gravity-defying drapery, with which she was attempting to cover her loins in a demurely protective posture. The figure apparently attempting to access those loins was the horned, goat-legged deity known as Pan.

"Hey."

Lottie nearly jumped at the softly spoken syllable near her left ear. Tingling and breathless, she turned, mouth open, to see a tall, androgynous woman standing next to her, staring at her. The woman sported a lazy, unstyled mohawk, and the wavy brown hair tumbling across her forehead stopped just short of covering her green eyes.

"Sorry to startle you," the woman whispered, smirking. "You were standing so still, I was beginning to wonder if you were an exhibit."

Warmth spread across Lottie's face and neck. "Oh," she exhaled. Her eyes flicked over the woman, taking in her long, slender limbs, comfortably clad in what looked like men's clothing. Feeling obligated to make some response, she groped for something clever to say. "Well... I may be on the Rubenesque side, but... I don't think he ever painted glasses or jeans."

The woman chuckled. It was a rich alto sound. Still standing next to Lottie, she turned to face the painting. "It is a particularly fascinating one, isn't it?"

"It is," Lottie agreed, "but I can't put my finger on why."

"Did you know it's a collaborative work?" She waited until Lottie shook her head, and then elaborated: "Rubens painted the figures, and the background was done by Jan Brueghel the Elder. They were the two major painters around Antwerp in their time, both getting commissions from nobles and royalty. Instead of being in competition, they ended up being buddies, and collaborated on a number of occasions. Rubens also painted with Brueghel the Younger when the Elder passed away. In fact, I think they painted the exact same subject several years after this one."

Lottie raised her eyebrows and looked from the painting, to the woman, and then back to the painting. "Wow. I had no idea. Are you an art history professor or something?"

"Only voluntarily, to annoy my friends," the woman quipped. "I'm actually a software engineer. Art's just a side interest."

"Cool," Lottie breathed. She chewed on her plump lower lip and tried to coax up a more extensive response from the depths of her suddenly warm and fluttering insides. "Um... I'm a 'barista'." She released a cynical huff and rolled her eyes.

"Yeah? Where at?"

Lottie glanced up at the woman, who seemed genuinely interested. Dare she answer? If so, she'd be giving a stranger the means to track her down. Did she want that? Her gaze shifted back to the painting, to Pan's hand reaching past the tall reeds to grasp at the nymph's diaphanous garment.

"Sorry," the woman whispered before Lottie could respond, "I'm being nosy. Don't worry about answering that."

Smiling faintly, deep in thought and still contemplating Pan and Syrinx, Lottie said nothing.

"Pan's such a creeper," the tall woman remarked after another minute's silence. "Most of the time he seems to go after everything he can't have. Syrinx, yunno... she was known for her chastity. A legendary, stalwart virgin."

Lottie let a little more silence pass before replying, with another tiny smile, "What a boring life."

The woman stifled a snicker.

They moved onward as a twosome, unconsciously having paired up as the only two apparent loners visiting the exhibit. Morning drifted toward afternoon as they discussed each painting they paused to appreciate, and eventually they ended up at Leda and the Swan.

"This story cracks me up," Lottie's new companion whispered to her. "Do you know who the swan is?"

Lottie shook her head.

"It's Zeus. Fucking Zeus. Like, for whatever reason, the king of the gods thought the best way to seduce a beautiful woman was to dive at her as a huge bird."

Both women covered their mouths to hold back laughter in the quiet museum.

"Who knows why stories like this became so celebrated in art?" the woman mused once they'd calmed. "There are so many depictions of this one alone. Sometimes Leda's obviously being attacked by the swan, and in others she seems to be, like... snuggling it. What really gets me is, look at how many examples of this weirdness show up in paintings of this era, in comparison to actual human couples. It's like it was somehow more socially acceptable to depict a woman being fucked by a bird or some supernatural creature than by a man."

"That is super weird," Lottie whispered, smirking. The other woman's liberal tongue amused her yet made her blush, and she glanced around to ensure there were no innocent youngsters or disapproving staff present to witness it before letting her mind drift back to the art. After a minute's consideration of the many female figures in the paintings she'd been gazing at, her smile faded. "These poor women. They always seem to be either love goddesses, or some dude is trying to chase them down and force them to be his own personal love goddess."

"Hm, yes. Women as either objects of worship, or objects for consumption. Is our culture much different?"

Lottie arched an eyebrow, remembering the beauty industry ads she often saw sweeping past her while she rode the bus. "Good point."

These poor women. Realizing she'd looked upon the Aphrodites with the same compassion with which she'd regarded the Ledas and the Syrinxes made Lottie feel a vague sense of shame over how resentfully she always looked upon the willowy models in the ads.

"Really good point," Lottie reiterated once she'd given the matter some more thought. They silently moved onto the next painting, which was Venus at a Mirror. A plump blonde Venus gazed almost smugly out at the viewer through the reflection of her small mirror, held up by a young Cupid.

Lottie took a deep breath, feeling somehow more able to speak certain private, shameful thoughts to a stranger than to her friends. "I've always sort of... felt this vague bitterness toward women who look 'perfect', according to modern standards. Or maybe 'envy' is a better word. I've often thought, 'They must have things so easy. They're so lucky.' But... maybe that's not true."

The woman glanced down at her with a little smile. "No, I don't think they have things easy at all."

"I guess women on both sides of the spectrum deserve compassion for the way they're, you know, pigeonholed by society. Or would it be condescending to feel sorry for them?" Lottie cocked her head, studying the Roman goddess who, with her gaze, tacitly invited the world to appreciate her beauty. "If a woman wants to be a love goddess, more power to her. But the idea that any of us should feel railroaded either up onto a pedestal or down to consumable status is just not okay, either in the seventeenth century or the twenty-first."

The woman's smile widened. "Well, now who's the professor? Very well put."

Lottie blushed, and uttered a nervous laugh. "I thought I was just rambling. You're very kind." Her throat was starting to feel dry. She swallowed with effort as she worked up the courage to ask a question she ought to have asked at least an hour ago: "Um, may I ask...? What's your name?"

The woman stood up a little taller, her broad smile growing brighter. "Sure. It's Lo."

Lottie's eyebrows went up. She wondered if she'd heard right. "As in... low rider? Or like... lo-and-behold?"

"More the second one," Lo chuckled. "But more specifically, short for Dolores. I know, it's a craptacular name, and the nickname options are equally unthinkable. I would never be a Dolly or a Lola, and certainly not a Lolita. Ugh!"

Lottie nearly burst into giggles at Lo's dramatic cringe. "Sorry! It's just... you make amazing faces. But I totally get it. I hate my name too. It's Charlotte, but I go by Lottie."

"I don't think there's anything wrong with 'Charlotte', but Lottie works. It's cute. It's you. I can't pull off 'cute', but you..."

They shared a lingering smile.

It was well into the afternoon by the time the two women were ready to leave the museum. They lingered near the parking lot, finding any excuse to keep talking and avoid parting ways. Inevitably, a lull settled, and it was then that Lottie knew her time with the fascinating Lo had come to a close.

"So, are you parked nearby?" Lo asked after a few moments' silence had passed. She was shifting her weight from foot to foot, seeming restless, perhaps nervous. She pulled out her keys, letting them dangle from one hand.

"I take the bus," Lottie said, her tone almost apologetic for reasons that escaped her. "Being a yuppie coffee slave hasn't yet made me quite wealthy enough for a vehicle."

Lo nodded and pushed back her untidy fringe of hair with the hand that wasn't jingling her keys. "Okay. Well... listen. This has been a lot of fun, and... I'd actually... really like to take you to lunch. How about it?" Her eyebrows went up expectantly.

Lottie bit down on her bottom lip. It had been fun, and she didn't want to call it a day. Still, she hesitated. Was this a date? Was she being hit on? Maybe it ought to have been obvious, but she wasn't used to being a recipient of flirtation, especially from a woman, and was more inclined to believe she had misunderstood the situation.

"I should clarify," Lo said quickly, before Lottie could come to any conclusions, "I think you're amazing, and super adorable, and yes, I'm asking you out. But if you're not into that, I totally get it, and I'd at least like to be friends. I promise I won't be a creeper like Pan and try to chase you into a marsh or anything."

The reference brought a giggle from Lottie, though it was partially nervousness. She looked down at her shoes, a simple, comfortable pair of flats, and then at Lo's clunky, square-toed boots. "I should really head home," she concluded. "Sorry. I just... yeah." She swallowed, feeling ashamed of herself, but the situation now seemed like something she needed to hastily remove herself from.

"Okay, that's cool," Lo said, peacefully accepting even her incoherent non-explanation. "Well... I said I wouldn't be a creeper, so I won't insist on inserting myself into your life. But I could at least offer you a ride home...? I promise I'm not an axe murderer, but I suppose that's what they all say."

Lottie looked up and laughed again, enjoying the woman's charming personality, yet still feeling the need to flee. It was as if she had a bright red ABORT, ABORT, ABORT signal flashing inside her brain. "That's very kind, but I couldn't possibly. It was nice to meet you." She took a step back, hesitated, looked toward the bus stop, and then back at Lo.

"Likewise," said Lo, offering a smile that seemed to bravely carry a burden of disappointment.

Lottie turned to leave, but had to stop, and turn back again. "Dark Horse!" she blurted out. "That's the coffee house I work at. Dark Horse on Third."

Lo's smile brightened. "I know of it."

Mirroring her smile, Lottie gave a single nod. "I'm there... most weekday afternoons."

"Okay then. Maybe I'll see you around, Lottie."

* * *

When the satyr showed up next, Lottie shrieked. She was in the bathtub, and had just surfaced after dunking her head beneath the water to wet her long hair. She wiped her eyes, and there was the deity, sitting on the lid of her toilet, watching her. Lottie scrambled to cover herself feebly with a washcloth, though the satyr was just as naked as she was. The water, churning from her frantic movements, splashed over the edge of the tub, causing a couple of the candles she'd lit to fizzle out.

"I've startled you," the satyr remarked with a twitch of amusement.

"No shit!" Lottie huffed, barely able to find a voice after the shock. Her heart was hammering against her ribs.

"Profanity, from my little nymph?" chuckled the goat-legged creature. "Perhaps you are finally beginning to free yourself."

Lottie shot the satyr a baleful glare. "Why are you stalking me?" she exclaimed. She narrowed her eyes and curled up tighter in the bathtub, remembering the predatory creature reaching through the reeds to grab hold of Syrinx. "Are you Pan?"

The satyr cocked its horned head. "It is a complicated question that would require a complicated answer, but it's not important. You're curious about me when you ought to be curious about yourself."

"Why, pray tell?"

"Because you still deny yourself."

Lottie stared back at the creature, her mouth hanging open in a paralysis of confusion, frustration, and shame.

"You know of what I speak," the satyr added.

"Do you mean... Lo?" Lottie whispered. "I'm denying myself... her?"

The satyr grinned.

Lottie released a sharp huff. "Look, I just got out of a relationship. More importantly... I'm straight!"

"Are you?"

"Yes!"

"Are you?"

"Yes!"

The satyr stood abruptly and took one large step over to her, its heavy cloven hoof landing with a clop! Lottie nearly shrieked again as the creature leaned down over her, hooking a hand around the back of her neck, exhaling earth, wine, and clover into her shocked face.

"Think of me later," it breathed against her trembling lips, and pressed its mouth to hers with almost bruising pressure.

* * *

She was rushing into the school bathroom, holding back tears. Before reaching a stall, she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. She was dressed in a Halloween costume that she'd been so proud of this morning, but now it embarrassed her.

A late bloomer, Charlotte was only now, at fifteen, starting to feel more like a lady than a little girl. At the onset of puberty she'd initially tried to hide her body as much as possible, embarrassed by the changes and wanting to deny them. These days, she was finding the confidence to want to be pretty, grown up, even a little bit sexy. Other girls wore things that hugged their bodies, causing boys to stare. She wasn't sure she'd want to dress that way, at least not all the time. This year, though, she'd been preoccupied with the musical "Chicago", and decided to dress as a Jazz Age flapper. She didn't wear a lot of dresses, but this one was short, showy, and emphasized her curves. She even wore makeup, pantyhose, and borrowed high heels, all of which were a little weird for her, but she liked what she saw in the mirror.

At school, her friends gave her compliments, telling her she looked amazing, and that she should wear makeup more. Then, during the party at lunchtime, a boy told her loudly that her dress was too small and that her butt looked like a pair of beach balls. Several other boys had laughed, and even a few girls.

So she was here, hiding in the bathroom to avoid crying in front of her classmates. Someone, however, had followed her, and was pushing into the stall behind her. At first she thought it was a boy, and she nearly screamed, but it was a girl.

Francine Glasser, better known as Frank, had dressed as a boy as long as anyone had known her, and was so openly lesbian that she was downright obnoxious about it. Frank had been a troublemaker with severe behavioural problems, was in a few "special classes", and had been suspended a few times for destructive and defiant behaviour. She flirted with girls aggressively, making obscene gestures and comments. Hardly anyone actually liked her, and Charlotte found her particularly annoying.

Today, Frank actually looked pretty good dressed as a classic gangster, complete with pinstriped zoot suit and fedora. Her plastic machine gun and cigar had been confiscated, but she'd stayed in character all day. Even now, Gangster Frank followed her into the bathroom stall with a determined swagger.

"C'mere, dollface!" Frank said in a dramatically deepened voice, grabbing her by her long string of plastic pearls. "Don't listen to them saps. Yer a real swell dame."

Charlotte hadn't seen it coming, but suddenly their mouths were mashed together. She wasn't sure if it was because of the compliment, her vulnerable emotional state, the fact that their costumes matched eras, or everything together, but that moment in the bathroom stall with Frank had felt absolutely perfect. The kiss had lasted at least a minute or two before they broke apart, breathless, hearing voices approaching.

"I'd better scram, doll," Frank said, backing out of the stall and wiping away the lipstick that had smudged from Charlotte's mouth onto hers.

"Will I ever see you again?" Charlotte had panted, immersed in the role.

"Not likely, sweetcakes. But hey... we'll always have the bathroom stall!" Frank tipped her hat and fled the bathroom just as some other girls were coming in.

* * *

Lottie bolted upright with a huge gasp, splashing enough of her bathwater to extinguish the rest of her candles.

What had just happened? She must have fallen asleep, she figured, and dreamed of a memory several years buried. She put a hand to her lips, which felt warm and tingly, as if that kiss she'd been dreaming of had just happened moments ago.

Lottie got out of the tub and dried off. As she went about her nighttime routine, she couldn't stop thinking about that kiss. It had been her first kiss, though she'd never told anyone her first had been a girl. After the incident, she recalled worrying that Frank would tell everybody, or that she'd suddenly have to be a lesbian, but instead things had gone back to normal. Frank barely gave her a second look, and wasn't even nice to her when they'd been forced to interact in class. Still, that one kiss in the bathroom stall while wearing Halloween costumes had been the most romantic and sexy experience of her entire adolescence.

At a naive fifteen, she'd found it hard to wrap her head around Frank's behaviour. Now she knew there had to have been reasons for it, sad reasons. Frank had probably had a rough home life, and been discriminated against enough that she'd felt the need to live out her sexuality as loudly and obstinately as she could. In retrospect, Frank had perhaps contributed as much to her early exploration of her sexuality as she had to her reluctance to explore it further. On some level, young Charlotte had made the assumption that if she was going to be into girls, she'd have to be like Frank, and she didn't want to be like Frank.

Lottie fell asleep that night pondering what her life would have been like had she never denied a certain part of herself because of the personality of one individual. She dreamed of Gangster Frank, of Lo, and of something with horns.

* * *

Monday afternoon at Dark Horse dragged on for Lottie. It was one of those nightmare work days that seemed as if it would never end. Sometimes Lottie just about had her fill of coffee snobs, and her "customer service smile" was beginning to wane by the time she'd finished with a shrill soccer mom's bafflingly complex, inexplicable beverage order. As she took a deep breath and prepared to push herself back into the fray, she came face-to-face with someone familiar who instantly inspired a genuine smile.

"So you've tracked me down," Lottie remarked, glancing over Lo's white Oxford button-down paired with a tie covered in tiny ones and zeroes.

"In my defence, you made it easy," Lo replied, grinning back at her as she leaned on the counter, making firm eye contact.

"Granted." Lottie couldn't stop staring. Her heart was pounding. "Cute tie, by the way. Impressively nerdy. It's binary, isn't it?"

Lo, nodded. "Everyone at my office thinks it's hilarious, but outside of work only one person in thousands gets it. It just says 'fuck' over and over."

Lottie snorted loudly as she tried and failed to keep her laugh inside, and glanced aside to see her supervisor giving her the stinkeye. "Um, okay, that's hysterical. But I should probably appear to be a professional now. What can I get for you?"

Lo just kept grinning, charmed by her snort. "I'd be happy with whatever you might recommend. What's your finest cup of coffee?"

"The Kenyan medium roast is the absolute best," Lottie said. "We do the roasting right here in house."

"Sounds good to me. I'll take a large. Bestow upon me the dark nectar of life, coffee goddess!"

Lottie held back more giggles as she completed the transaction. Feeling cheeky, she wrote "NERDY LESBIAN" on the cup. Lo received it with a delighted laugh and snapped a picture.

"Already this is my favourite cup of coffee of all time," Lo said, winking. "The place is a bit out of my way, but I like the quality as well as the service. You may have just won a new regular customer."

Lottie beamed.

"Well, I'll let you get back to work. I might just stay a while, though. I'm liking the, uh... ambiance."

The "ambiance" had likewise improved for Lottie, with Lo tucked into a comfortable chair nearby, alternately watching her work, or playing with her phone as she sipped her coffee. Lottie's mood was soaring until her supervisor confronted her about what she'd written on the cup. She silently cursed whichever of her co-workers had observed her and decided to tattle. Her cheeks were aflame with embarrassment as she feebly embellished a tale of the customer being a personal acquaintance, and something about an inside joke. Though her explanation did not fully placate her supervisor, she escaped with nothing more severe than a scolding and an imperative to apologize to the customer for the inappropriate cup label. Lottie decided to wait until the end of her shift, which was, fortunately, only about fifteen minutes away.

At last, she was able to hang up her apron, wash up, and escape. Lo was still hanging out, and offered a broad smile at her approach.

"You were right--best cup of coffee in town," she reported, holding up her empty cup. "And I may just have to keep this."

"Well, about that... I'm supposed to apologize," Lottie sighed, rolling her eyes.

"For what?" Lo wondered. "Didn't I say I loved the service?"

"Yes, well... apparently what I wrote wasn't considered appropriate." She felt the blush return to her cheeks, although she could not keep back a tiny smile.

"Well, I am a nerdy lesbian, so I find it entirely appropriate. And now I want to keep this cup even more. Your job's not in any danger, is it?" She quirked an eyebrow.

"Oh, goodness, no," Lottie assured her. "My shift is over, though." She bit her lip and gazed up at the tall woman who now stood up to face her. "There's something I genuinely do want to apologize for, though. The way I sort of freaked out and ran off on Saturday."

Lo shook her head. "Really, don't be sorry. I was pretty sure you were straight, and I took a shot. You weren't unfair, and you weren't cruel. Honestly, if you call that 'freaking out', you should see how some other straight chicks react."

Lottie shrugged, and looked down at their shoes. She wore comfortable sneakers, while Lo sported suede wingtips below a pair of simple navy slacks. "Well... I was thinking. You could ask me again...?" Her eyes flicked back up.

Lo grinned and shuffled a little closer to her. "Lottie," she said in a near whisper, "may I take you to dinner tonight?"

"Yes," Lottie replied, "you may."

* * *

By the time Lo was pulling up to her apartment building to drop her off that night, Lottie was feeling unburdened, and more alive than she had in years. At first she'd felt ashamed at how easy it was to tell Lo everything about her life, but Lo made her feel she didn't have to be ashamed of a single thing. She gave a thorough account of her life, her friendships, and her dating history, up to and including the sordid details of Tony and his unwashed pillow. She even talked about her first kiss, and how Frank's off-putting personality had likely been the primary reason for her hesitance to pursue other same-sex relationships for years afterward.

Lo had soaked up everything she had to say with seeming thirst, empathizing with her without laying on the sort of excessive coddling she'd gotten from her friends after her breakup. In turn, Lo shared plenty of her own history, from early explorations to her liberal college years and a brief experiment with bisexuality that was so ill-advised and so awkward that they both giggled over it, to recent years, her desire for fulfillment and stability, and her struggle to find someone she connected with who didn't just bring a heap of unwanted drama into her life.

It seemed backwards, but they had started with serious, intimate subjects and, toward the end of the night, worked their way back to lighter matters.

"...she orders a half-caff, half-sweet, extra-hot, one-third nonfat, two-thirds soy vanilla latte with--brace yourself--two percent foam. Talk about your special snowflakes! I genuinely suspect she derives sadistic pleasure from being an utter nuisance to anyone obligated to serve her."

Lo gaped at her account of the coffee order for a few moments before forming her hand into shape of a pistol and miming shooting herself in the head, complete with sound effects.

"Basically," Lottie agreed, giggling.

"You must have the patience of a saint," Lo remarked. "Or maybe I'm just not built for customer-service-oriented work. If it'd been me, she'd have gotten two percent spit."

"Gross!" Lottie laughed, giving her a light shove.

Lo pushed back, joining her in her laughter. "What, you have a problem with my spit?"

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose it comes down to context."

The two stared at each other, suddenly calm and silent, though both still smirking. Abruptly, they both burst out laughing again. Lottie felt heat flood her cheeks and neck. This stage of a first date was always nerve-wracking, though she didn't feel nearly as vulnerable as she normally would. In one evening she'd shown more of herself to Lo than she had to any boyfriend or even her closest friends. Instinctively, she knew Lo would never be one to throw any of her insecurities back in her face the way Tony had. Whatever happened from here, she felt ready for it.

"So, coffee goddess," Lo said softly, placing one arm across the back of the bench seat, "do you kiss on a first date?"

Lottie's heart raced. "I don't have any formal rules about these things," she said, grinning. "Once upon a time I would have been quite straight-laced, but these days I like to open myself to possibilities, and take things on a case-by-case basis."

"Oh, and how's my case looking?" Lo asked, reflecting back her smile and shifting closer to her.

"I'm very optimistic, in fact," Lottie said, her smile growing wide enough to cause her cheeks to ache. "So, if you wanted to kiss me...."

"Oh, I've been wanting to since I first saw you standing there in a daze, staring at Pan & Syrinx."

Lottie covered her face with both hands, a muffled squeal emerging from behind them. Lo reached out to coax her hands away, and kissed each of her palms. She brushed back Lottie's hair, and lips met lips. Lottie leaned into the kiss, a series of tiny shivers travelling all the way through her body. Lo's mouth was so soft, exquisitely soft. Lottie had gotten accustomed to a man's rough, devouring kiss and the abrasive scrape of his stubble against her sensitive skin. Lo was not only soft, but intuitive, deepening the kiss at just the right moment, and brushing gentle fingertips against the nape of her neck in a way that made her break out in a warm cascade of goosebumps. A kiss from Lo was something given rather than taken, and Lottie was breathless with gratitude as well as hunger for more.

"Good?" Lo whispered against her lips.

"Mmm... so good," Lottie sighed, placing a hand one of Lo's thighs and squeezing. "Come up?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

They kissed with furious intensity all the way up in the elevator. The way Lo held her and touched her was like nothing Lottie had experienced before. When Lo's thumb drew up her spine, she went weak in the knees, and felt the other woman smile against her mouth. Lo wanted her to feel good. Lo derived pleasure from making her feel good. This was what Lottie had been missing.

In Lottie's bedroom, illuminated by the soft, warm glow of her bedside lamp, they undressed each other, piece by piece. Lottie marvelled at Lo's lean, athletic build. She didn't have many curves to her, but to Lottie, this was no drawback. She was magnificent, and Lottie felt privileged simply to be in her presence. Lo was likewise in awe of her, eyes raking over every soft line of her form, and warm, exploratory hands followed. Lottie felt like a goddess.

"You're so beautiful," Lo whispered, coaxing her down onto the bed and arching over her. "You're a masterpiece. You're just right. God, I want to taste every inch of you."

She leaned down and attached her lips to Lottie's neck, sucking gently, kissing, now and then darting her tongue out to sample the subtle salt tang of her flesh. Lottie melted, moaning, helpless beneath her as her mouth made its gradual way down her body until Lo was settled between her legs.

"Lottie," Lo panted, blazing eyes flicking up to meet hers, "I want to make you feel good. I know this is new to you, and I don't want you to feel any pressure to reciprocate. Tonight, I just want to please you, and get the taste of Tony and everyone else out of your mouth. Will you let me?"

Lottie blinked rapidly against the blur of threatening tears. "Yes," she gasped, "yes please!"

Under normal circumstances, Lottie preferred to stay discreetly quiet during sex, but in moments Lo's nimble tongue, laving, flicking, and plunging deep, had her yelling unbridled nonsense. Her legs wrapped around Lo as if to keep her in place, and one trembling hand reached down to massage the other woman's scalp. As Lo made a feast of her, answering each of her cries with growls of affirmation, Lottie's eyes rolled heavenward.

It may have been her distracted imagination, but Lottie could have sworn that, in the soft shadows dancing across her bedroom ceiling, she could make out the curious shape of a pair of horns as she inhaled a scent of sweet clover.

He is a love child in the truest sense of the word. Born in love, born for love, and love will be the death of him. He is slender-limbed, pale and tender all over as if untouched by the sun or anything else that may leave a mark on his baby soft flesh. His hair is fine milkweed fluff, always the target of loving caresses or sweet kisses from his adoring mother. He is hugged, carried, coddled, and spoiled, effortlessly charming every soul he encounters. His grins and giggles are irresistible, and he is showered with gifts and treats to keep him in the innocence of pure joy. The world falls in love with him, and he falls in love with it in return, ignorant of the torment love will bring him.

He is moved by his senses. He groans in ecstasy as he crushes sweet summer berries against his tongue or licks melted milk chocolate from his fingers. He is hypnotized by the scents of spring blossoms, campfires, even the subtle ghost of first snow carried on a frigid breeze. He stares, agape, at anything beautiful, whether an intricate piece of art, a blazing sunset, or his mother as she brushes her long hair. He will let his eyelids fall and lie back on the floor wherever he is, paralyzed in the strains of a magnificent symphony or mellifluous voice. Anything soft to the touch arrests him, and he nuzzles a sleepy kitten, a handful of rose petals, or a freshly washed blanket against his cheek. He inhales glory, and exhales joy. The whole world has him in a thrall.

Blissfully blind, he opens himself to anyone, through a rosy lens seeing in them the same beauty and purity that possesses him. He does not see the sadness and dread in the eyes of those who know how completely the world spoils perfection, and how temporary are the richest beauties. He smiles and opens his arms to all, not knowing that when he grows older and loves whoever will have him with all of his might, holding nothing back from those with whom he shares pleasure, he will receive pain, judgement, and emptiness in return. He does not realize that while he cherishes beauty, caressing it with tender, pink fingertips or holding it delicately upon his tongue, others consume and devour, spoil and destroy all that is lovely.

He laughs freely, not knowing that there are bloody wars being waged over matters he will always be too innocent to understand, that he will have to take up arms against others, to cause pain and accept death when he was built only for love.

He sleeps deeply and easily, having only sweet dreams as real worries have not yet tainted his soft, safe existence.

And as he dreams, his mother lies awake weeping for her child, who should never have been born to this world. She knew when he was only a twitch in her belly that a child of love can never grow up, but can only be destroyed.

The boy kept his head down, thin arms tightly crossed over his chest as he approached the gas station checkout and, in a small, hoarse voice, asked the attendant for the bathroom key. The attendant barely looked up, wordlessly handing him a large plastic shoehorn with a key dangling from the end of it. He clutched the greasy plastic handle and slipped out, walking with quick, furtive steps through the darkness toward the single unisex bathroom. The door and its cracked plastic sign were barely illuminated beneath a dingy, yellowish light, which had attracted dozens of clumsily cavorting moths. They made gentle, papery noises as they collided repeatedly with the filthy glass shade.

He stood woodenly beneath the light and the moths for a few heart-pounding moments. This was it. It. He'd never come here before, never dared. Somehow he always had a feeling he'd end up here, and the longer he stared at the dented door with the symbol on it, the more he wondered if he'd ever leave this place.

He fumbled for the key and slid it into the lock, carefully turning. He stepped inside, and let the door fall shut behind him. Fluorescent bulbs flickered inhospitably overhead. A graveyard of moths littered the inside of the fixture. He set the key with its absurd shoehorn attachment on the edge of the sink, and took a large step back, leaning against the wall. He looked around the tiny room, studying everything. The mirror was heavily spattered and smudged, and cracked in several places. There was graffiti scribbled all over the walls--names, phone numbers, swears, obscene drawings. On the floor just behind the nearly overflowing trash can was the pathetic, shriveled form of a used condom. He shuffled forward and leaned curiously over the trash can, not really knowing why. He poked one layer of crumpled paper towels aside, and there was a used needle lying there. Near it was a yellow Bic lighter, which he picked up, again not knowing why, and clutched in his hand. It felt mostly empty, but there were probably a few drops of fuel left in it.

Finally, he turned to face the toilet. The tank lid was cracked, one corner of it completely missing. Someone had stuck a used Band-Aid on the side. The plastic flusher handle was slightly discoloured, preserving the history of thousands of dirty hands touching it. The seat and inside of the bowl were in a similar state. It didn't look like something anyone who wasn't desperate or really out of it would use.

His mother had probably been both desperate and out of it when she'd come in here almost 15 years ago.

He blinked rapidly. At moments, it almost seemed as if he could see blood streaking the inside of the bowl and ribboning through the water.

What had she done with the umbilical cord and the other gross stuff that came out? Left it in the toilet? Thrown it in this trash can? Or had paramedics come to help her with that?

These thoughts and so many others whirled in his head as he stood there staring into the toilet water.

This was where everything had begun, and on some level, he'd always figured it would come full circle. There had been times, particularly after coming down from a high, that he'd thought about it directly--like, maybe if he could get a really big score, he'd bring it here, sit on this very toilet and shoot it all at once, go out with a bang and exit the same way he came in. This was what he was born to, and for--this shithole littered with used condoms and drug needles. This was his life. Was there really any chance he'd ever escape it? The moments he'd tried to enjoy his foster home just seemed stupid now. It was an idiotic pipe dream, the idea that he could ever claw his way out of this cycle. He was even craving heroin again, for the first time in months.

He stepped backward and felt his back connect with the wall. The strength seeped from his legs, and he sank down and curled up on the floor, tears finally beginning to break free. He didn't want to go back to that foster home, where a couple of strangers acted like they cared. He hadn't been ready to leave juvie, where he was surrounded by kids just like him, and every moment of his day was strictly controlled by someone in a uniform. He wasn't ready to step out into the world and come to terms with how pointless everything was, how futile any attempt to transcend what he'd come out of. He didn't want to be free. Freedom was the worst thing he could imagine right now. Freedom was like being five years old and lost in a place you'd never been before, where everyone is a stranger. Freedom was like being in a little boat in the middle of an ocean, with no land in sight. Freedom was that horrible feeling of stepping off a curb between awake and asleep, and for a split second being sure you're going to have a terrible fall.

The boy sobbed bitterly, clutching the Bic lighter tightly in his hand. He thought about using it--setting the trash can on fire. It would burn. There was enough dry paper. He could go down, taking this whole place with him. Or, at the very least, prove he was a bad boy who did bad things, so they didn't want to let him go free anymore.

He sniffled noisily, hiccuped, and looked down at the lighter, placing his thumb on the spark wheel.

Click... click... click....

After about ten tries, a little flame popped up. He stared at its refracted image through tear-blurred eyes.

There was a sharp knock on the door. Only now did he notice the faint flashes of blue-and-red filtering through the narrow crack at the bottom of the door.

"Open up, kiddo," said a deep, authoritative voice on the other side. "I know you're in there, now don't make me bust this door down."

The boy shivered and sobbed, the sound of the cop's voice cutting through his confusion and emotional overwhelm. The voice was familiar. He knew exactly who was there. The same cop who always seemed to know where he was. The same cop who'd turned everything upside down for him that one time, busted him and his mom and made sure he couldn't ever go home again. There was no real home anymore. There was only this room. It was his past, and his future.

His destiny, somehow.

As a dog returns to its vomit...

That phrase kept coming back to him. He wasn't sure where he'd picked it up, but it drifted around in his head, reluctant to leave, just as he was reluctant to leave this place.

He sobbed again and looked at the dented door as the knock sounded once more, louder this time. The entire door shuddered. The boy knew the cop wasn't kidding--he would bust it open. Put another dent in it.

Sniffling, the boy pushed himself up, wavering unsteadily for a moment. He threw the lighter back in the trash, and took a step toward the door just long enough to unlock it before he shrank back and sat on the floor again, curling up into a shivering ball of sobs.

The door swung open, and the boy heard the cop's heavy boots approach. He'd never cried in front of the cop before, and he was ready for the big man to just yank him to his feet and back to his cruiser. Maybe he could kick the guy a few times, try to take his gun. Assaulting a cop was a pretty big deal. That would get him back into juvie. But how could he assault a cop when he was crying his eyes out?

Instead of grabbing hold of him, the cop sat down next to him with a sigh. They were sort of shoulder-to-shoulder, but the boy had always been small for his age--his thin shoulder barely reached the man's bicep.

"Your foster parents are pretty worried about you," the cop said. His voice still carried authority, but it was a little softer than the voice he normally used. "What is this? You running away? You're too old for that shit, kid. They do something you don't like?"

The boy shrugged weakly. His breath hitched a few times. "I d-don't belong there," he sobbed.

"And you belong... where? Here?"

The cop's voice was skeptical, but the boy immediately nodded with enough vehemence to make himself a little dizzy. "Don't you see?" he burst out, his voice trembling even as he tried to shout, to be angry. He breathed through his mouth in shaky little huffs as he tried to calm down enough to speak a little more. "I've never come here before, but... now that I'm here... I know I belong here. This is me, the real me. When I was in that house with those... people... it was like I was trying to be someone else. I can't be someone else forever, can I? You can make me go with them again but I'll probably just come back here and I don't think I'm ever gonna leave!"

The boy wasn't sure he was making any sense. When the cop didn't reply for a while, he was sure he'd just been spouting gibberish. Then, the man spoke up again, his voice even softer now: "Hey--can I put my arm around you?"

The boy was taken aback at first. All sorts of defensive questions whirled through his mind: Why? What for? Are you a perv? Are you going to hurt me? Are you going to trick me? Why would you want to touch me? Instead of asking any of them, he replied in a vague mumble, "If you want, I guess."

The boy didn't usually let anyone touch him. He didn't know why he consented. Maybe just because the guy was a cop, and cops did what they wanted no matter what. He was even more confused as to why the strong arm that wrapped around his shoulders triggered a fresh flood of tears. He found himself leaning slightly into the cop, shaking with sobs. The man gave him a few minutes before speaking again.

"Why here, kiddo? Why is this who you are?"

The boy was too humiliated to reply at first. He waited until he could speak without his voice breaking. "This... this is where I was born. That toilet right there. Mom... didn't know she was pregnant. I just... fell right in. Sometimes I wake up cold... thinking I can actually remember it."

The cop's grip on him tightened a little. One big hand rubbed his back a little, up and down. The contact was strange and gave him odd feelings. The boy had experienced many touches in his short life, but not like this. Touches from an adult were controlling, punitive, painful, ugly. There were touches that pushed him out of the way, touches that yanked him back where he was supposed to be. There were touches that hurt and stung, that bruised, burned, and scarred. There were touches that made him feel gross, embarrassed, and wrong, touches that made him want to crawl into a dark hole and never come out.

This touch was different. When he allowed himself to relax into it, he gradually realized it was safe. It was comfort. Comfort was new, and disorienting.

The boy pressed a little closer, and sniffled. More words came that he didn't expect: "Maybe it's weird that I came here to see this place, knowing... but I've always felt it calling to me, kinda like the drugs. I don't want this life, but I feel like it's stuck to me. Like when someone writes on you with a Sharpie and it won't wash off."

The cop sighed. "Kid... what you came from doesn't have to be who you are," he said softly, but with conviction. "Believe me... if you knew what I came out of, you'd know. You don't have to forget this place, but if you choose to, you can walk out of here right now and never look back."

The boy opened his eyes and stared across the room at the toilet. Blue and red lights danced across its porcelain surface. He closed his eyes, and could still only see blood. "What if it doesn't let go? I thought about burning this place down. Just annihilating it for good."

"Mm-hm," the cop murmured, still rubbing his back slowly. "Arson's a pretty serious crime. You wanna go back to juvie?"

"Yeah," the boy admitted feebly. "Things were... easier there, somehow."

"Mm-hm. Now that you're out, you don't really know what direction you're going in. And if things go totally off the rails, you've got no one to blame now but yourself. Is that right?"

His face burned with embarrassment when he realized the older man could see right through him, especially when he scarcely understood his own behaviour or emotions. He made no response, but he knew his silence was answer enough.

"Kiddo... you're still so young. You don't have to have everything figured out, and you certainly don't have to let other people's mistakes dictate the rest of your life. This place has no power over you if you choose not to allow it. There are people who actually have your back in this broken world. People who want to give you a home, and a fresh start."

The boy sighed. "They don't really care. They'll dump me back into CPS's hands as soon as they realize how fucked up I am. I don't belong in their house. I don't know how to act around people who don't yell, and who eat meals at an actual table, and live in such a clean and quiet place. It's so fucking quiet, I can barely sleep! Everything smells nice... and I...."

The cop gave him a gentle squeeze as his voice broke. "Shhh," he soothed. "They care more than you realize. And you do belong. It'll just take some time to get over the culture shock. How about giving them another chance, hm?"

The boy looked up, blinking the blur of tears from his eyes so he could meet the man's gaze. "You really think they're like... for real?"

"For real," the man confirmed. "They know a lot about you--the good, the bad, and the ugly. And they still want to love you and be your parents. I think you'd be an idiot to throw this opportunity away just to prove to everyone that you're a bad kid. I don't think you're a bad kid, and neither do they. You've had a tough break in life, and now you're getting a leg up. I get that it's hard to trust in anything or anyone after what you've been through, but if you take a leap, I'm sure they won't let you down."

The boy was silent as he absorbed the words, and the warm contact. Was it possible? Was it really, actually possible?

After a few minutes, he allowed himself to be helped up, and guided toward the door of the foul little gas station bathroom that he'd thought was his destiny. Knuckling away the remains of his tears, he stood at the threshold and looked back. Dawn had risen while he'd been wallowing here, and soft, golden light now streamed through the doorway, washing away a little of the oppressive darkness within, as if to break a spell. He could still picture his mother here, could still picture the blood. But the image of himself here, with his heroin, ending things exactly where he'd begun, seemed more distant.

He stood up a little bit straighter as they walked away from that bathroom. He expected to be led toward the police cruiser, but instead the cop guided him in another direction. Now he could see the familiar white hatchback belonging to his foster parents, and next to it, the couple, who had been standing there waiting, with their arms around each other. They looked worn and haggard after a full night of worry and tears, but now they brightened significantly as they recognized him, and quickly approached.

The boy had never felt so embarrassed. He had no way to explain to them why he'd left, or why he'd come here. The things he'd said to the cop seemed like sacred things that couldn't be repeated. Those were words that perhaps needed to be left behind, in that bathroom. In his mind he could immolate all of it with that little yellow Bic lighter, removing that room and its sinister hold on him for good.

They reached for him, and for the first time, he went to them without flinching or questioning. He let them embrace him as he'd let the cop embrace him, and he was crying again. They were crying too. The scents of sweet vanilla, fabric softener, and aftershave surrounded him, and he decided that it was possible he could get used to this.

As the car left the gas station, he watched out the window, silently bidding it farewell. The farther they drove, the more he could feel himself shedding that place like an old skin, each sinister tentacle of its hold on him weakening and dropping away, leaving him feeling lighter than he ever had. A smile appeared on the boy's lips. He was going to have waffles for breakfast.

I am making a list

By no means exhaustive

Of what you took from me

Not being scared

I miss it the most

If you could find a way

To return that

Please

Feeling that the world

Was a safe place

Where people could be happy

I would like that back

As well

Accepting the touch

Of someone who loved me

Instead of pulling away

In breathless panic

That one was precious

I keep finding more things

Missing

You took everything

Perhaps

And if you don't plan

To return it

Could I just ask you

Please

Was it worth it?