Hot for Slayer

by Ali Hazelwood

Fuck him and his dry-cleaning bill.

My mother didn’t raise a quitter. Well, my mother didn’t raise me at all.

Dear Mommy was very generous with her pledges, especially when they involved sacrificing other people.

What I have learned is that less is more. Well, not true. Less is less.

Our species has a clear case of hot-girl tummy, and I’m grateful to the twenty-first century for giving us a final diagnosis.

I’ve kissed and been kissed by many people. None, however, who were, fundamentally, at an atomic level, like me. None whose feel and scent and body I’d learned over centuries, through endless battles and close calls. None who were anything like Lazlo.

I dream of you—of this. So many dreams, all so different, we must have done it a million times, in a million different ways. Tell me what you’re hiding from me, let’s get this over with, and then let’s do it a million more times.”

Alas, faced with the reality of immortality, people either deemed it a symbol of evil or they demanded a piece of it for themselves.

“He was a very kind man. A rare thing.” “Kind men?” “Kindness, in general.”

I may not need to breathe, but I still need to be able to breathe. And right now, I just can’t.