“Hey.”
He says my name in a way that still makes me
want to lie down on the ground and let him walk all over me. But
I’m mad at him, remember? He killed us. I’m thinking I should be
pissed.
So I don’t answer him. Instead I look at my hands folded
between my knees and try not to think about the short length of
chain that shackles my left wrist to his right. We were holding
hands when we died. We’re handcuffed together now forever. I just
hope this thing’s long enough that we can still have
sex.
Yes, I know I’m dead. But I still get hard
just thinking about him. Who wouldn’t?
The chain rattles a little as he shakes it
to get my attention. I can tell he’s pouting without even looking
at him. “Are you mad at me?”
“Yes,” I tell him, but there’s no conviction
in my voice. I’m no
