We were sitting at the edge of the pool—shin-deep in crisp, moonlit water—when he reached his arm around me and said, “I’m going to hell.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Or to someplace, I’m not certain.” I sat up to look at his face, which was starting to blur. “I don’t understand,” I said, and then he pulled me closer to him.
“Have I been good to you? Have I made you happy?” he asked.
I began thinking of those trips we took around the city. That coffee shop that served quiche. That charming movie night at the museum. And that dim-lit bar where we spent hours sipping martinis while discussing the impermanence of things.
I told him, “Yes. Yes, of course.”
Then he took his arm from around me, slid off into the water until none of him was left.
— by Reece Taylor