in the pores. Sliding close enough that our hips touch, he
holds out his
hand to me, and I smooth the saliva over it with my
fingers. I don’t have
human blood, he says. I used to; then I exchanged it for salamander
blood—don’t
ask me where it came from. That’s why, even in this kind of weather,
I never sweat.
*
*
*
*
When he blinks it seems to me almost as though a
second, translucent
lid sweeps across each of his pale-yellow eyes, leaving
behind a residue
that catches the light. I bet you’ll like the chairman, he says. He
has this way
of holding me by the neck. It causes me to black out. It’s like his
fingers slip under
the skin, like his whole hand penetrates me, touching something deep
inside. When
I wake up I feel renewed, as if my old body parts had been replaced
with fresh ones.
I’m in a different place, generally the waterfront, bathed, with my
nails cut, and my
clothes washed and folded next to me with a little something slipped
into the pocket.
*
64
*
*
*