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


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