Just My Type

by Lucy Bexley

“No hospital. I, um, don’t have insurance.” Or a pulse, but that wouldn’t stop them from trying to bankrupt me.

I am holding this food item wrong, I can tell because it’s crumbling in my hand and spilling through my fingers like dirt into an open grave. It’s so strange when food doesn’t have bones. It just feels wrong. But for whatever reason, this muffin doesn’t have any, not even ribs or a tendon.

Annie walks down the street and the temptation to follow her is strong, to spend her day with her even if she doesn’t know it.

An older woman in a lumpy rainbow-striped sweater she must have woven herself had lured Nines to her booth with a tiny cracker of some kind. We’d need to discuss her gullibility later, but I wouldn’t embarrass her in public.

I was thinking I could go back to the farmer’s market and buy a second candle. I think she’s really into electric lights. Is that a scientist thing?

She grabs my hips and pulls me down hard. “I want to feel you on top of me.”

I’ve been petting Nines while she practices her biting skills on my arm. She’s improved so much in the last week; I’m starting to understand how people can feel so connected to dogs.

Her touch sears a little and I love it. That sensation of something where my heart is.

I move toward her. She is so angry. I want her immediately. I want to watch that anger ignite into something else, preferably something that gets her beneath me.

“You’re right. If you gave me blood, I wouldn’t have to run anymore. It’s the worst, I really hate it.” Annie tilts her head to one side and Nines mimics her. “Right,” she said slowly, her brows knitting together. “But more importantly, you wouldn’t have to kill people anymore.” “Also that. Of course. I understand how that can be seen as a benefit.”