Member-only story
The Authentic Eclectic
Remains
Summer was sinking.
She slid out across the liquid, nearly tumbled to her knees, and placed a hand on the yellowish haze.
“That one?” The man laughed.
She glared at him, then resumed her trek across the hard waves of the silvery pool. All around her, pieces of the world drifted from the ceiling, touched the surface of the liquid, and sank from existence. The pool was like glass to her touch, so she had to catch the most important ones before they went under.
When the man had appeared in her room at midnight, she’d thought he was a half-waking hallucination. He wore a black baseball cap with a gaping green bass applique and the words gone fishin’, a wine-colored tailcoat, a t-shirt that had two thumbs and read this is what a feminist looks like, gold taffeta harem pants, and brown leather dress shoes without socks. The cigarette filter protruding from the side of his mouth made him look like Hunter S. Thompson, albeit with thicker stubble. Leaning on her dresser, he snapped on the lamp, raised his brows and chin, and tossed out, “Hey.”
In bed, she’d looked up from the laptop resting on her thighs, widened her eyes, shook her head, and blinked hard several times. The man remained.
