La Mer

S. K. Nicholas


It’s just after three in the morning, and she’s sleeping with her feet out the window. Too hot, you see. The threat of spiders crawling in and wrapping her in a web is a very real one, but she chances it just the same. Outside, you can hear the cries of the feral lot as they prowl the streets looking for fights and a way out of the misery of their creationless lives. Unlike us, they won’t look up at the stars talking about love and loss, no, they’ll just grunt and curse and foam at the mouth at the sight of someone to beat up or a piece of skirt to chase in the hope of finding someone too inebriated to resist their urges. In packs they roam, and as I smoke my cigarette watching the news with the volume turned down, she just lies there at the foot of the bed…

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