Love and Other Conspiracies

by Mallory Marlowe

He has so many books in his place and it’s going to take me a minute to find what he’s looking for. The shelves stretch from floor to ceiling and are alphabetized. What kind of man alphabetizes his books? One I am turned on by, clearly.

I wonder if, in a way, he’s like his own kind of cryptid. Isolated. Elusive. Something that takes some hunting to learn about.

Five days away means at least twelve pairs of underwear, in case I shit myself twice every single day, and then some for options.

“Who’s been taking care of you this whole time?” He chokes out a watery smile, hearing his own words thrown back at him. “Me?” “That’s not a whole lot.” “No,” he sighs. “It’s really goddamn lonely.” “You don’t have to feel alone anymore.” I don’t think it’s only him I’m speaking to.