In the middle of one of her witty comments on American society, which is what she liked to talk about, and as I was laughing with her, enjoying the twinkle in her eye, and her pretty smile, I saw her visage melt and go south. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Shit," she said. "Damn! It's him," she warned. "Him who?" I questioned. "My ex-boyfriend," she informed. "And?" I questioned again. "I hate him," she stated. "He's an ass. I can't stand to be in the same room as him." "That bad?" I hoped I would find out how bad it was. But she didn't want to talk about it. I looked at her hands. They were shaking slightly. "Would you like to leave?" I really didn't, but I knew she needed to get out of there. On our way to her car, she invited me to come to her place. Her body looked so good in the night air, how could I say no? When we got to her apartment, we jumped in each other's arms and played with each other's tongues. She was an animal. She tore at my clothes and had my pants down before I knew. She was a part of the life he was constantly trying to put away from himself even as he trudged hip deep in it. She smelled like rock salt and fear, not Sunflowers and Chanel.Quickly, she reached out and ran her fingers over the smooth round fissures of gun shot scars even as he flinched away from the small scratches on her own shoulders. She grabbed his hands, holding crooked and calloused fingers to her breasts. She ran fingertips over smooth and puckered scars, knife wounds and claw marks. She was pretty sure the long thin filet along his rib cage was from a werewolf, pale enough to have happened in childhood or adolescence. The short little hash marks along his forearms were identity checks, long and thin and made with a silver blade, drawing just enough blood to prove you were the only one home inside your own skin. And yet for all the hard miles on his body, only two small scars marred the perfection of his face. Of course, by the time a monster got close enough to snack on.
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