Meet Me in Hvammsvik

It was a midnight flight to Reykjavík and right before take-off the man from Seattle announced he was bit. It was enough to kill Zach’s buzz.

The reveal of the wound came almost comically. Through a tangle of airplane policies and bureaucratic loopholes, both Zach and the Seattle man had to change seats and come forward to the emergency row. As it shook out, they were the only two on the flight that spoke English and, apparently, that was a requirement to pull the big red handle on the exit door. It seemed like a bizarre oversight for an international flight but in a world where most people spoke a little English, it was probably a safe bet. Most of the time. This time, however, the flight was 90% Chinese tourists, 9% firm Icelanders (proudly not speaking English), and then Zach and Seattle.  When the stewardess begged if anyone spoke English, Zach, eager to redeem his day drinking, raised his hand and shambled from the back. After she ran through the instructions he nodded and said “Yes” aloud and took his seat in the empty row. The same rigamarole happened for Seattle which was when the stewardess pointed at his bandaged hand. It was reddening, still, and the man kept it in his lap.

“I think just another Band-Aid will help,” he said, shrugging.

“Did you cut it on something?”

“No, somebody bit me. In the bathroom.”

It was Zach’s big travel day, and the drinking had started that morning when he woke up in Flåm. After two trains to Bergen, another to the airport, and then a flight to Denmark, the journey had two more legs: flying to Iceland and then driving through the dead-of-night to the Hvammsvik Hot Springs & Resort. That’s where Jessie was waiting for him. Zach had never travelled alone before and while it was superficially freeing, every activity grayed with the absence of his wife. Two tickets for the funicular? Just one. Two spots in the cold plunge? Sorry, she couldn’t make it. Reservation for two at the fjord sauna? You can give up a spot. They had planned the vacation for years. A week in Norway and then three days in Iceland. They had been married for five years, had no kids, made reasonable money, and a week before the trip she admitted to cheating.

At first, Zach was proud of himself for taking it in stride. He did his box-breathing and didn’t lash out (although he really wanted to). Instead, he made her promise to answer all his questions truthfully, which, to be fair, was itself a cruel and demeaning bargain. But crying and puffy faced, Jessie promised, and then Zach asked a variety of questions that, for any man, was the equivalent of putting a loaded gun to your own head. The interrogation started Normal: Who was he? How many times? Where did it happen? And then went into the Guilt Trip: Does he have a wife? Was it worth it? Are you proud of yourself? And still unsatisfied, he plunged into Lunatic Mode: Was he bigger than me? Did you cum? How many times did you cum? And did you cum harder? She answered the best way she could simultaneously sparing details but sounding truthful enough to fulfill her bargain. It didn’t matter though. Despite the setting she tried to paint (not without her own cliched lines of course, “It didn’t mean anything” and “I was just lonely”), Zach still scripted, directed, and shot his own pornographic series of events. Jessie and this guy, rutting in a Hyatt hotel, her losing her mind in ecstasy and him, cumming so much his warm, strong seed spills out of the condom and so, fuck it, they take off the condom and go again. After a day or so when the porno ended, Zach indulged one more severity: kicking her off the trip. “I’m doing Norway alone. You can meet me in Hvammsvik.”

Of course, traveling alone was just depressing. In his Uber to Newark Jessie texted him. “Have fun. I love you.” And Zach scoffed. The lack of emojis, the militant punctuation. It was clear that the mending of this marriage, and the subsequent solo trip, was perfunctory. Less ‘find yourself’ and more ‘waste your time.’ But to be honest, it couldn’t be any other way. Zach was a straight, white guy. The romance of “Eat Pray Love” didn’t extend to him. Frankly, he was too ugly to get laid and too depressed to try. Double frankly, he still loved Jessie, which only added a poignant misery to all the sightseeing, not so much elevating the experience, but flattening it. The majestic fjords, the towering waterfalls, and the high-end cuisine all held the same attraction as the lesser events – the McDonald’s, the busses, the pints of Hansa, and even watching Fight Club in a hilarious Norwegian dub. So, he drank, and he got maudlin. But he also kept all the reservations and tours. “Have fun.” She had said. Yes. Will do. “I love you.” Ok. Period.

“Fuck, I don’t feel good.”

Zach looked at Seattle. He was seated across the aisle, next to the door. It was just them two with four empty seats between them. And Seattle was looking green. 

“Are you okay?” Zach asked.

“I’m so hot, I’m sweating through my underwear.” Seattle shifted in his seat and extended his legs along the empty row. Then, still uncomfortable, he re-arranged himself and buried his face in the blue pillow the stewardess gave out.

Zach tried not to stare. There had been grumblings of these bites happening all over Europe. By most accounts, the end result was that the fever either killed the virus or killed you. And the biters didn’t seem to act with the rage induced, red-eyed sprint for brains you’d come to expect from movies and TV but, rather, a more simmering anger that built into a lash out. A small disagreement somersaulted into a loud argument, then a screaming match, then a fuck me? fuck you! and take this too: Chomp! In other words, the bite was deliberate, but it was easy enough to avoid. Especially if someone was vocally pissed off and noticeably sweaty. Still, the proximity made him nervous.

Zach snuck a glance. Seattle fidgeted like someone under too many blankets. In short time, he’d be angry. A part of Zach envied him. When was the last time he was angry? Actually angry? It seemed like never. He was an educated, liberal salaryman who was dutifully trained in the useless art of self-reflection. Any ‘anger’ – foreign as it was – was immediately analyzed to death and dispelled. The emotions of his life were always under a self-imposed magnifying glass. How ‘angry’ was he allowed to get with Jessie? Was it more noble to see her perspective? To put himself in her shoes? Was he expected to pivot on a dime and immediately understand that his wife had needs and her cheating wasn’t really cheating at all but a larger symptom of some bigger, more boring marriage drama, and that, itself, part of an even larger tableau of capitalism in the west and the corporate creep of spiritual ennui? What did bell hooks have to say? Who gives a shit? He thought of his father, a republican. Voted for Trump twice. Now there was a man who got angry. Allowed himself his anger, indulged it in like a whisky or a good cigar. What a treat for Seattle, honestly. Some guys got all the luck.

He thought back to the setting where Jessie told him. It was a Sunday and there was nothing to do. They were overcaffeinated and restless, pinballing around the apartment from the couch to the tv to the office to the kitchen, reading, watching, scrolling, making another cup of coffee, both of them silent. She was avoiding him, but he didn’t notice. Not until he offered her a refill and she cracked. Why didn’t he get angry? He wanted to. He wanted to so badly. When he was a kid, he’d watch porn and fight the erection. Let his dick twitch with excitement as he’d try to re-interpret the sex on screen. He doesn’t know why he did that. Maybe he thought he was better than his base instincts. If he could control what turned him on, he could control what made him angry. And, moreover, he could be a role model of society. A good man who didn’t partake in the misogynistic industry of pounding tight teens. And when Jessie confessed, it felt the same. The rage fluttered but he denied it. Maybe he was already in the future, imagining Jessie (fat now, a huge slob) telling her friends that, “No, he didn’t raise his voice once.” He was trying to show that he’s so progressive and cosmopolitan and has such a grasp on his emotions he would never be someone to get cheated on. Yes. The twitching. But now on the flight, the blue balls were there. And Seattle groaned.

“Goddammit, I’m so fucked up.”

Zach looked around to see if anybody could help. Also, he wanted another drink. In a moment, the stewardess came down and looked at him, perturbed. She was the one who had rearranged the seating. Her Dutch Blonde hair fell straight. She didn’t look at Zach like he was a hero anymore. Rather, it was clear she didn’t want to turn her back to Seattle. He wasn’t yet restrained. 

“Can I get a rum and coke?” Zach asked.

“We haven’t started our drink service yet, but we will soon.”

She shimmied off back to where she came and spoke in Dutch to another attendant. Somewhere behind him he heard Chinese. The news of the bite was traveling languages; such was the polyglot of gossip. 

At 30,000 feet the captain finally made the announcement. In his own euphemisms, he touched on the sick passenger and stated that despite there being empty seats in the cabin, it was paramount to stay in your assigned seat. That was where the trouble started.

Before, when the Dutch Blonde made the big fuss that the exit row needed to have English speakers only, people got displaced. Namely, a Chinese lady in an orange hoodie. She kept showing her ticket to the stewardess and the stewardess kept nodding while ushering her to another seat. This caused some laughter among the Chinese tourists who teased the Orange Hoodie with some inside joke. Now, with the flight in motion, the Orange Hoodie got up, snuck down the aisle, and reclaimed her assigned seat. Right next to Seattle. Now the seating chart went: Zach at the emergency door, empty seat, empty seat, aisle, Orange Hoodie, empty seat, Seattle, now groaning. 

It was clear she wanted the extra leg room, and he tried to alert her.

“I wouldn’t sit there,” he whispered.

But the Orange Hoodie had no interest. Nor could she understand him. Instead, she spoke the universal and pulled her hoodie down to get some sleep. Zach’s eyes shot over to Seattle, pressed against the window, already getting sweaty. If the stewardess didn’t return fast to redirect the Orange Hoodie, to send her to the safety of the back of the plane, then something was going to happen. The entropy of it all started to form. Zach could hear it, even, thumping overhead in the luggage bins.

Looking back, he regretted the Hvammsvik rendezvous. What was the point? Now neither of them would enjoy the stay. They’d turn the matte black cabin into a domestic dispute, but worse, a dull one, full of therapy speak and validation, the signature of these new wave relationships. In college, he dated a girl that slapped him.

He regretted the rendezvous some more. He wanted Jessie to stay home. He didn’t want her flying alone. He didn’t want her driving to Newark. She always got nervous at the turnpike, and the parking lot came so abruptly, too, a sharp turn that careened into a bright yellow overhang. If you braked too fast you were rear ended, and if you didn’t then you blew right past it. She’d be nervous making that drive. He didn’t want her to feel that. 

“Ma’am, you can’t sit here. Ma’am.”

The Dutch Blonde was back, and the jig was up for Orange Hoodie. Laughably, she kept her head down, feigning sleep, but the stewardess wasn’t buying it. Next to the window, Seattle muttered. Zach was worried the fever was already blossoming. He was gonna be mad soon. He could see the slurs forming on his lips.

“Ma’am, now.”

Some Chinese folks joked in the back. Someone else teased. The Orange Hoodie got up and shuffled back to her new seat and the others laughed. Zach couldn’t tell if the bite was being taken seriously on the plane. Zach couldn’t tell if he himself was taking it seriously.

“Can’t she tell I’m fucking sick?” Seattle growled.

“I’m sorry, sir. Just let us know if you need anything else.”

“Water. Ice water. Please. I’m on fire here.”

He took off his Mariners cap and wiped his brow and Zach saw his face. Woof. He had already gone pale. His small beard was sweaty, and his lips were this sickly pink, like an open scab.

“What the fuck are you looking at?”

“Sorry,” Zach said.

“No – I’m sorry. That was – just – ugh.”

Zach turned back to his window. He needed that rum and coke. He didn’t want to be sober at the Hertz. He didn’t want to be sober for the night drive to Hvammsvik. He didn’t want to be sober when he opened the door and saw Jessie’s luggage on the ground, neat and tidy like she didn’t plan to stay.

He liked being married is the truth. He liked being married to Jessie too. But he could never talk about her the way everyone else talked about their wives. They said words like smart, brilliant, my best friend. Really? Your best friend? He supposed she was, but the competition was light. No, Jessie was a hard ass. But he liked that. She was loyal too, at least she was. At least he thought. And what was loyalty anyway? She could be faithful for five years and then cheat once, did that make her unfaithful the entire time? He loved her still. Oh God. He needed a drink. He didn’t want to fold. He didn’t want to lighten up. If he lightened up, if he just forgave her, he’d have nothing, no hand, no integrity, no agency at all. When did he get so castrated? He loved her. He loved her. She was kind to her parents. She was politically active. He loved her. She never missed a protest, a march, a petition. She was a bad driver, but a great traveler. He loved her. But he had to get angry. It was all he had.

He played back the porno tape he imagined. Her on all fours like a dog. He felt his dick twitch with excitement. What a funny reaction. He looked around to get a drink.

Orange Hoodie had returned.

“You can’t sit there,” Zach said. But even as he said it, he knew it was pointless. She didn’t speak English. She didn’t care. She waved him away like he was a gnat. And people snickered in the back like perhaps this was a bet. Zach grew nervous. Something bigger was happening. The entropy thumped again. No, now it was turbulence. They were over the Atlantic, shaking about, and the stewardess was gone.

“He’s sick. Lady. Hey.”

She waved him away again. Someone else laughed. This was actually great. He could get angry. A test run for Hvammsvik. He closed his eyes and tried to be racist. Tried to conjure up some good ol’ xenophobic vitriol. After all, here he was trying to help. And she waved him away. She thinks she’s the queen of the plane with her bag of boiled peanuts and her Alipay. He imagined the lot of them touching down in Iceland with their GoPros and selfie sticks, moving like locusts, knocking over everyone and shouting. No, no, this anger was not his style. Still though. 

The plane shook again. 

And then she screamed.

Zach’s eyes shot open. 

Seattle was biting her.

The following events happened quickly. The Dutch Blonde and another stewardess (a Frumpy one) came hustling down the aisle. People in the front stood up and turned. Others shouted. The plane bumped again and a container up ahead popped open. Bright colored luggage tumbled out onto an old man’s head. He screamed too. Sadder.

Zach pushed himself against the wall. The emergency exit beckoned. Was now the time? Of course not. But what if? What if? He could pull it open and have everyone sucked out into the black sky. All of this chaos squashed like a bug. That’ll teach Jessie. Should he reach?

Orange Hoodie yanked her arm away. She stood up, stumbled, fell back. Her arm was bleeding through her sleeve. Seattle looked thrilled and then suddenly ashamed. He clapped his hands to his mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, she wouldn’t go back to her seat!” He cried. Blood poured off his beard and colored the collar of his shirt. Some of it sprinkled the little TV screen. On it, their digital plane limped to Keflavik.    

When the moment was over, Seattle was restrained in his seat and his face bounced between embarrassment and shame and pure, unfettered rage. Once again, Zach was jealous.

As for Orange Hoodie, she was rushed to the back of the plane where she was restrained as well. There was no more laughing, and the plane shook itself out of turbulence and the rest of the flight was promised to be smooth.

“We need everyone to stay calm and collected,” the pilot said. “We cannot turn around and we cannot land anywhere else. We’ll be arriving at Reykjavík in one hour. Thank you for your patience and your resilience.”

Resilience. What an odd word for the pilot to use. Who was being resilient? Everyone was tearful and horrified. Two people were bleeding and others were screaming. The old man up ahead was still spinning from when the hard-shell suitcase clapped him on the skull. Resilient?

Seattle was now taped to his chair, and his mouth was taped too, a silver strip against his bloody beard. His Mariners cap was on the ground and the image was depressing. Zach studied him and then looked away.

In the past, the few times he did get mad, he reminded himself of his father. His racist, republican father. Hell, going on the Chinese rant was almost a tribute to his old man, come to think of it. Oh brother. The only difference was the end. Whether Zach was ranting, picking a fight with his cousin, or flirting with a little road rage, he always ended up apologizing. Apologizing with his tail between his legs. His dad never did though. He couldn’t tell which was better. God, to be a republican. What a dream. To have that liberating, self righteous anger. To be completely detached from civil society. Rather than what he was now, a capital L loser who wanted the best for people. A hangdog humanitarian cuck.

But why didn’t he follow his father’s path? Maybe because he saw his mother grow hollow. Maybe he loved Jessie because she was the antithesis of his father. Because she called him ‘self-congratulating’ when he called her ‘performative.’ Because both of their opposed furies let Zach live in the gray neutral where he could repair his mom in silence. And all of it, to still be cheated on. Oh, man, if his father knew. He’d have a field day.

And there it was. 

The math on the chalkboard finally made sense, and the revelation was bright. Zach wanted permission to be angry. Needed it. If Zach could be angry at Jessie and be, not necessarily justified, but excused, then he could extinguish this fire in him, this anguish. Maybe Zach always knew this was where the flight was headed. From the moment Seattle confessed to being bitten, Zach was jealous. Why? Because he was allowed to be angry. And Zach wanted that.

When their descent was announced, Zach kept low and shimmied across the aisle into the seat next to Seattle. He reached down and grabbed the Mariners cap and put it on Seattle’s head and Seattle’s eyes darted around in confusion. 

Zach couldn’t get too big of a bite. Otherwise, there’d be blood, shouting, and he probably wouldn’t make the drive. It had to be small enough, delayed enough, that it really kicked in right when he met Jessie. He rolled up his sleeve and pulled back Seattle’s tape. He breathed heavily.

“Leave me alone,” he growled. “Can’t you see I’m fucked up? You fucking faggot.”

“It’s okay,” Zach said. “Just do me a small one.”

He offered his wrist. Seattle took his pinky.

The snap startled him. It was like separating a wing flat. A tiny pump of blood shot out before Zach even registered what happened. Only when he saw Seattle chewing on his digit did it all make sense. Why his hand felt so weird. Why his hand felt so wet. And then there was the pain. He gasped, and fought a scream, and scurried back to his seat. Quickly, he kicked off his shoe. With his other hand, he pulled off a sock and wrapped it around his wound. He tucked the whole mess into his mitten and sat on it. Then he grabbed the sanitary bag and vomited.

Things got worse before they got better. In his painful scramble, Zach forgot to put the tape back over Seattle’s mouth. And when the Dutch Blonde came to prepare for landing, Seattle lunged and got her too. That one hit a vein, and the blood was bad and by the time they touched down and skidded to a halt, it was bedlam. A riot was forming, and Orange Hoodie had started cussing.

The Frumpy Stewardess came over in a tizzy and told Zach that they weren’t going to make it to a gate and that on her say so, he should open the exit door. Zach felt thrilled. But his hand throbbed.

“Everyone please remain calm,” the captain announced. “We are forgoing the taxi process and finding a place to stop. There will be medics on the ground ready for you.”

After a long moment of anticipation, the plane stopped rolling. Frumpy came and looked at him and nodded, “Please, sir, open the door now.”

And he did. The sky over Keflavik Airport was dark black and freezing, and for a moment, he couldn’t be sure if he had opened it over the Atlantic like he first wanted to. Then the big yellow tongue flopped out and hit the tarmac with a slap and before he knew it, he was helping women and kids down the vinyl slide, all while his mitten filled with blood.

At the car rental he was nauseous and leaving the airport he was sweaty. The fever settled in around the second or third round about and he peeled off the mitten to better grip the wheel. Blood poured out onto his lap and his vision swam. He wasn’t drunk anymore, but he certainly wasn’t sober. And the black night of Iceland was impenetrable. An esoteric billboard displayed a church of elves, all of them leering. Another round about came and he went in circles. The final stretch was an hour up and down one mountain, and to his left the water of Hvalfjörður was a listless black, like a paste or a Velcro. Something sticky and inescapable. By the time he saw the glowing huts of Hvammsvik he was smiling. The anger was there. Ready for him. It was pure and bright and without any shame. Just look at his hand. There was the proof. He was bitten! He wasn’t in his right mind.

He parked the car and approached their hut. Their couple’s hut. Warm light came from the small windows. Elves chittered and laughed at his back. He spun around but the terrain was black, black and loud with a howling wind. His hand dripped blood onto the snow. He marched towards the cabin, fuming.

When he opened the door, he was greeted with a smell. Something delicious. Was Jessie cooking? A midnight meal? For her pussy husband? He stepped inside. Her luggage was open on their bed. Her clothes all around. She was planning to stay. And that pushed him over. He went into the kitchen to show her how angry he was. Finally. 

Attack of the 50ft Stalker

“Don’t call. 
Don’t text. 
Don’t write!”

Greg told her, which he’d demanded countless of times over the past few months, but it wasn’t sinking in, no matter how much he screamed it in her face or bellowed it down his mobile phone. Bailey, his ex-bae and current, fuck-nut stalker, had given him weeks of hell: He’d blocked multiple phone numbers, Facebook accounts, Snapchat usernames and Instagram identities. Yet, she kept coming, like a lovesick Terminator. 

To make matters worse—a living-fucking-nightmare of a situation—was the fact they worked together, too. There was no escape. She was there. Always. However, the situation had now hit its crescendo, its summit, as she went full, stage-five-clinger and erupted ‘at the office’. She stood before him now, ranting and cursing, having previously kept all arguments, threats and belittling comments and abuse to the shadows, away from work and hawk-eyed, eagle-eared colleagues, friends and managers.

“You bastard. You never loved me. You used me. Fuck it, I really am going to do it this time. If I can’t have you, then I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“Huh?” he said, her screechy voice reverberating around inside his head, sending icy, clawing talons down his back. His eye began to twitch. How the fuck did that noise not turn me off to begin with? he thought, drinking her in, fixing his eyes on her. Between that, her bullfrog-like neck, caked on make-up—half of which was always on her collar—itsy-bitsy tits with inverted nips, bland personality and the mindset of a child, I must have been thinking with my prick. Oh, yeah, I was. Fucking idiot. Well, I didn’t think she’d go all Play Misty for Me. Yep, got a regular Glenn Close on my arse.          

“Are you fucking listening to me, Greg?” Bailey clicked her fingers, stamped a foot, causing him to take a step back, away from the psycho, wannabe Barbie.  

Customers in the shop—standing on the outside of the in-store bakery—stopped to look and listen. To whisper among their numbers as the domestic unfolded. Along with the shoppers, colleagues and managers had also affixed themselves to their spot, mouths agape.

Fuck. This is bad, Greg thought, looking out at his chiefs, hoping his face looked pleading enough. “Well?” he said, thrusting a finger at Bailey. “Aren’t you—”

“Sod this,” Bailey said, cutting Greg off. 

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw her hand dart for something. 

A knife? he thought. With neck-cricking speed, Greg turned his head to look at her, seeing her reaching blindly for the rat poison the Rentokil guy had brought in earlier that day, ready to lace the traps with.  

“No!” Greg said. “Do—,” he trailed off, words giving way to laughter, as Bailey picked up a handful of raw yeast and shoved it into her mouth, going back for more. Before realising her mistake, she’d consumed over half a block.  

His giggles caused her to look, in horror, with particles of munched bread-riser falling from her drooping gob, and squeal. “What have I done?” she gagged, holding her gut. 

“You’re in for some painful diarrhoea, babe,” he said, chuckling some more.

 Customers to join in.  

However, their supervisors did not see the funny side of things, causing Greg to wipe the smirk from off his face, as they moved through the throng of goggling shoppers, inching towards the bakery’s entrance. 

“I feel awful,” Bailey said, clutching her stomach, moving towards Greg, stumbling and collapsing against the door to one of the walk-in ovens. 

“Right, that’s it. Enough of this bloody nonsense, Bailey,” Florence said, the shop floor manager, entering the bakery. “I’ve just about had it with the both of you, to be honest,” she snapped. “The tension in here the last few months has been palpable.”

“What’s a palpable?” Bailey said, her arse squeaking. “I thought it was a plant.”

Greg slapped his face and groaned. It’s that intellect that kept me around, he thought, turning to Florence. “Had you taken my complaints about her stalking and harassing me seriously, then it wouldn’t have got to this stage, now would it?” Greg said, puffing his chest out, towering over Florence. 

A loud grumble, followed by a second fart, rocked the bakery. 

“Oh, fuck,” Bailey said, putting a hand to her arse. 

“Do not use profanity whilst on duty,” Tomasina—acting store manager—said, filing in behind Florence. “You’re in enough trouble, both of you, as it is, young lady.”

Outside the bakery, Greg heard a couple of other managers trying to disperse the shoppers. 

“It’s under control now, people,” someone said. “We’re sorry you had to witness that.” 

Another loud rumble sounded out. “I think I’m dying,” Bailey said, doubling over, as liquid shit began sliding out of her trouser leg, pooling around her feet.  

“Oh, God!” Greg said, holding his nose. “That stench.”

“Right,” Florence said, gagging, grabbing hold of Bailey’s arm. “It’s the training room for you.”

“Greg, I love yooou!” she said, latching onto the oven’s door handle. “I can’t live without you. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. Please!” Tears flooded down her face. “I promise I won’t be needy. I’ll give you space. You can fuck other women… Whatever it takes.” 

“Shhh!” Tomasina said. 

“Let go of the oven,” Florence grunted. 

“In any other situation, this would be comedy gold,” Greg said, about to give his superiors a helping hand.  

“You’re coming upstairs too, Greg,” Tomasina said, snarling, trying to pry Bailey’s fingers free of the handle.

“Hell did I do?” Greg said. 

More shit splashed out of Bailey. “I’m bleeding,” she wept. “The pain!”

“Will you help us get her out of here, for God’s sake!” Florence said. “This place will need fum—”

Florence’s rant was derailed, her hands flying off Bailey’s suddenly bulging forearm, smacking her in the face, sending her backwards, reeling, and smashing into the wall. Her skull connected with a sickening thud. 

“Uh!” Florence said, sliding down the brickwork. 

“What the?” Tomasina said. “Did—did you strike her?”

“Nooo!” Bailey wailed, Tomasina sent flying, her other forearm ballooning in size, followed by her hands, arms, shoulders, neck and every other inch of her. 

Greg, in fits of uncontrollable laughter, stopped, the gasps and screams around him jolting him back to reality. “Jesus Christ,” he said, watching as Bailey grew a dozen feet or more within the space of sixty-seconds, going from a petit five-four to gigantic seven-four, and beyond. 

Her clothes tore asunder, akin to the Incredible Hulk’s.  

You won’t like me when I’m angry, Greg thought, lifting his head up and up and up, seeing her grow at an incredible rate. This is how Jack must have felt after selling his cows.

Bailey’s body filled out. Her arse became curved and plump, thighs thick, tits stout and pendulous. 

“Why don’t you love me?” she continued to bawl, her expanding body crushing everything around it. When her head and shoulders crashed through the ceiling, raining chunks of plaster and board down on those below her, Bailey realised what was happening.  

“Greg?!” she said, her voice breaking, tears dropping like individual waterfalls, whistling like Doodlebugs as they cut down through the air, washing Greg, Tomasina and Florence away, out the bakery and onto the shopfloor. 

It was biblical. It was Noah and his fucking arc. 

“We have to get out of here,” someone said. 

Shoppers jammed together as they tried stampeding towards the exit. 

Within the bakery, more ceiling collapsed, as spider-web-like cracks raced in all directions, causing the staff canteen on the second floor to fall through. Tables, chairs, Jill from checkouts and Dan the trolley boy, tumbled out of the spreading hole, along with fridges, ovens, chest freezers and other apparatuses and workers.  

Customers were crushed and splattered. 

Puddles of blood, piss and excrement spread along the floor in lakes. 

Clean up on aisle six, Greg thought, climbing out of the tear pond, pulling Tomasina to his feet as he did so. “We have to move, before the place buries us alive,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the crumbling building and hysteria. 

“Greg?” Bailey called, her voice making the ground and shelving tremble.

When he looked, he saw Bailey raise her one exposed hand up through the hole in the roof her head and shoulders had create, and use it to smash away at the structure that trapped her. The back half of the bakery closed in on itself. Stone, plaster and board buried the large mixing bowls, bread and roll plants, tables and friers. 

Screams rang out from above, as more bodies rained down, necks, arms and legs snapping on impact. 

Greg saw blood streak and seep across what was left of the ceiling.

“Fuck,” he said, moving backwards, pulling Tomasina with him, as desks, chairs, cabinets, PCs, laptops, and other office equipment crashed from the heavens. 

Sprinklers burst to live.

Alarms blared.

Pipes exploded. 

“Where are you, handsome?” Bailey continued, her both hands now pulverizing the shop’s construct, freeing her body, like Kong breaking his chains.  

“Holy fucking shit,” Greg said, looking at her. “She must be 50ft tall.”

“At least,” Tomasina said. 

“Run,” Florence said, “before we’re—Oooph!” she cried, as Bailey’s enormous hand enclosed around her and squeezed. “Ugh… B-Bailey, you’re killing me…” she wheezed. “My ribs.”

From where Greg stood, he heard Florence’s ribcage, hips and other bones snap and disintegrate, before Bailey opened her gigantic maw and scoffed her down, grinding the manager to a bloody pulp.

“Mmm,” Bailey said, moving forwards, raising one foot and bringing it down on a group of gawking shoppers, some of which took selfies and photos of the sci-fi freak. 

“Arrgh!” they said, before Bailey turned them into a puddle of sticky crimson. 

“Come here, baby,” Bailey growled. 

“Bollocks,” Greg said, turning to run, slipping on the wet, teary floor, causing him to collide with a display table filled with packets of hot cross buns. When he saw Bailey’s hand swipe for him, he commando rolled over the Jesus buns, avoiding her grasp. “Sorry, bitch, but you’re not my type. Too tall!”

Greg glanced over his shoulder as he ran down an aisle, gaining on the shop’s exit, seeing her come after him. 

“You can’t get away from me.” Bailey swatted shoppers, staff members and managers out of her way, some of which were thrown through windows or into shelving.

“I don’t mind a tall girl, but a 44 foot difference is a bit much,” Greg said, exiting the shop, finding his car in the car park. When he reached the driver’s side door, Bailey come crashing through the front of the shop, demolishing the sliding doors and foyer, as the building’s centre fell through. Bailey stopped looked at Greg, roaring as she did. 

In the distance, Greg fumbling with his keys, he heard sirens, followed by a monstrous groan and the shredding of metal. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said, watching Bailey tear up a trolley bay and hurl it in his direction.

Greg ducked, as the missile flew overhead, and crashed into the first fire truck on the scene. 

“Move,” he told himself, slotting his key into the door, unlocking his car. Behind the wheel, he started the engine and threw the car into gear, stomping the go pedal. “Screw you, Bailey,” he said, giving her the finger in the rearview mirror.

“Go, car. Go, go, go,” he said, moving his battered Pinto out onto the main road.

All the while, Bailey’s image filled his side mirror, as she gave chase, gaining, her impossibly long arms stretching out, her fingers grabbing for his car…

Sugar In The Well

The drink was so good it reminded me of nothing else at all. I had no frame of reference in either smell or taste for how to log it. It took me away from both time and pain. Too, it reminds me that I could go a long long time wearing the heat of many words and ancient beautiful nothings inside me. Ages for keeping my mouth shut. 

Hindsight afforded me the notion that if I had showed up to the rescheduled potential second date, he would have lost respect for me. So much had been cocked-up in the lack of translation between our communication styles by now I wasn’t sure either of us wanted to enlist our interpersonal clean up crews to make it right. Would we only create more of a mess?

Then the future comes and there I am: Las Vegas, Day 3000 — all the west side apartments I used to inhabit are gone and now I live in a part of town far flung from them at the end of a street in the vintage city proper.

My backyard scintillates by day with early light and wind turning suncatchers and spinning bees. By night with the glistening backs of stray cats, black and calico, who leave the feathers of their prey askew by the back door.

Everyone has been telling me lately that I look different. That something has changed. But really I think my hair just went thru a growth spurt.

Sitting there with that cocktail in a moment that becomes a meditation I bring him in. What if we had that promised date?

Inside my imagination’s hotel I embrace him and hold him fast. I kiss him and touch his head and move my palms over his shoulders. I keep kissing him in different places as I let the desire build inside my body. Fluids rushing like a dam break.

His hands are across my ass. They bunch my skirt and expertly interpret the shape of my underwear. In a flash his shirt is up and I am inhaling the warmth radiating from his chest. A perfume uniquely masculine, undeniably his. My shoes come off. My bra undone. Stockings tugged away. Breath growing fast. Panting as his erection drops out. My lips part to what I can’t look away from. Hungry to taste and swallow precum from the throbbing head of it.

Inside a break in the action we can hear soft moans from the next room over. A woman cries out as her orgasm builds. He closes his eyes and sighs — the sound makes a warm hum in the air which has deepened his fantastic pleasures. As if inside a movie and from behind the camera of my eyes I watch. I say nothing. I don’t move.