Hot for Slayer

by Ali Hazelwood

“As long as you don’t let anyone get to you before I do, Aethelthryth.” “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll always save myself for you.” And that’s how I got away from Lazlo Enyedi on the night of November 9, 1989.

Kill him now. Kill. Him. Now. But I don’t. Because I’m too busy listening to the five words that change my life forever. “Who the hell are you?”

Okayyyy

“What is this gluten that everything seems to be free of?” “This is the fourth store that claims to sell the best bagels in New York City,” and “The two things might be unrelated, but I noticed fewer rats in places with more hot dog carts”

Lol

God, I’ve always hated arthropods. “Interesting,” Lazlo muses. I whimper, “What?” “An entomologist who is afraid of spiders.” He turns to face me. “How unusual.” Shit. Fuck.

I’m starting to find it more amusing than irritating, the way he states things about me instead of asking questions, and that worries me a bit.

“There is nothing that I could discover about you, or about myself, that would make me want to do this any less.” His tone is arrogant and self-assured, and brooks no argument. I hate it. Sadly, I could see myself loving it. He steps closer once again. “I know we have done this before, Ethel.” “No. No, we haven’t. How do you even . . . ?” “I know your smell. I know your skin. Your hair. It’s all familiar. I have it all memorized. And 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.”

“Some lives run invisibly. Undetected by most. And when a person comes along who sees those lives for what they are, who acknowledges their reality, who reminds people that there is value in different ways of existing . . . A minute of that is worth more than a thousand nights with a lover. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Yes, the mask tattooed on his heart is an exact copy of the one I’d worn. But I’ve lived countless lives, and objects tend to fade faster from my mind than people or experiences.

“I don’t think here is the best location to do this.” “Where, then?” “I have a place.” “Here? In New York?” He nods. “Where?” His smile is small and wistful. “Across from yours, actually.”

“I don’t want to take too much—” With a flex of his abs, he sits up from underneath me and presses his palm back to my mouth, a silent shut up with this nonsense and take all you want.

Lazlo lifts his head to glare at me. “Glad to see that you find the most meaningful moment of my life hilarious.”