Under the covered bridge.

Globs of wax on the floor from the previous night's candle-lit encounter held their dull pastel purple perfectly. We were sprawled out in the dim half-light of my room on that lazy Thursday morning, the beast with two backs having been killed twice already. She was reading a book I'd lent her as I slowly fed her her favorite ice cream, a smooth mixture of coconut and pineapple that would've gone great in a rum concoction.

"Let me turn the light on, Babe. It's too dark to read in here. Bad for your eyes."

"Says who?"

"Mothers throughout the centuries."

She shot me a look that sought to dispelled the old wive's tale. I reached down for another silver spoonful of the rich dessert and noticed a small, wet circle on the sheet where my left armpit had been dripping. It wasn't particularly hot in my room, but my body's accustomed to draining itself. Our bodies were practically empty as it was, the eager lovers that we were and had always been. She caught me staring down at the sweat mark on the sheet and snorted quietly through her nostrils to express her slightly disapproving and hesitant amusement. I loved when she did that.

Was it time for another bite yet? We were sharing the remnants of the carton, but I was only partaking so she would indulge. Two for her, one for me-- the ratio I preferred.

"Last bite. Open."

She complied, despite my awkward movement. It was clear I hadn't dealt much with children.

"You're terrible at feeding people."

"You're great at ruining things," I said, rising to rinse the bowl out in the sink.

The bathroom was closer, and therefore my destination. Besides, I didn't feel like going downstairs to the kitchen considering I wasn't wearing much of anything. I swished some water around in the bowl as the early afternoon sun shone through the venetian blinds in the second-floor bathroom. She must've opened them before. She always did that for some reason, ever since she'd first started coming here. Sometimes, when I wasn't her intended host, I'd find the bathroom shades in their open position and stage a silent protest of longing. Why couldn't I have seen her? Why was I such a coward? The worst part was that I knew the answers to both of those questions and chose to do nothing about it. It didn't matter anymore, though; things were as they should have been from the start. But there was still that sour memory of what the opened venetian blinds used to symbolize.

"Would you shoot me?" I asked her once I'd returned to my bedroom.

"I think so," she said, a puzzled look on her face. I could tell that she'd really thought about it. It disturbed me a bit that she'd responded so sincerely without the further clarification that I planned on delivering next.

"I mean with non-lethal shells. Rubber buckshot. I want to get some to keep in the shotgun as the first two rounds. Doesn't seem right to be OK with using them on someone else if I don't know what they feel like. You know, kind of like how cops have to be pepper-sprayed before they can carry the stuff."

"You're ridiculous, but I get it. You sure you trust me enough for that?"

"More than anyone else right now, myself included."

She put the book down on my bed, wiped some coconut pineapple ice cream from my beard with her thumb, and ran her fingers down my left cheek. There wasn't much light in the room, but I could tell that her eyes were more gray than green at the moment.

My mother would approve someday. My father would miss out. It didn't seem such a bad deal, all things considered. I'd done in twenty-five years what some people hadn't in a lifetime, even if I wasn't sure what exactly that was. The days of taking hostages were over, and I was done eating ice cream.