Blackthorn

by J.T. Geissinger

“You’re looking well. More intimidating than usual. Must be the hair. Did you ask your stylist to match it to the color of your soul?” I remember this. The unshakable confidence. The playful, caustic humor. The way he could pin me in his stare and make me feel like I was the only person in the world. Or invisible. “Actually, I asked her to make it match the color of yours. Go away before I shoot you.” He lifts his brows. Not in fear or surprise, I’m simply entertaining him. “With a firearm?” “No, with a speargun.” My tone drips sarcasm. If only it were acid. “Ah. Needed some protection from the local sharks, hmm?” He glances over my shoulder at the house, then looks back at me. His pale eyes hold a challenge. The emotion his appearance initially caused in me flares abruptly into rage. “I hate you.” He chuckles. “You said that out loud.” “Good. I don’t want there to be any confusion.” He sucks on his cigarette, exhaling through his nostrils so smoke billows out in gray, dragon-like plumes. When he speaks, his voice is soft and intimate, a hand languidly caressing my bare skin. “You don’t hate me, Bugs.” “If you want to keep your kneecaps in working order, don’t ever call me that again.” “I don’t hate you, either. Not even a little bit. Not even a particle.” “Stop talking and go.” “Did you think about me over the last dozen years?” “Sure, lots of times. They all involved violence.” He nods, as if that answer makes total sense to him.