The Unquiet

Observation when he turned around. I saw what he was, or what he was becoming. We never quite see everything there is, do we? What I did see was the delight—the murderous delight on his face. I didn’t know if I’d get there, get to you, in time.”
    “I’d stunned the shit out of him,” she began. “And yeah, he might’ve gotten a piece of me anyway. You finished him off real nice.”
    “Well then, you’d loosened the lid. I’ll wait for you.” He leaned forward, touched his lips to hers. “Always.”
    “Sap.”
    “Guilty. And when we get home tonight, we’ll take care of that arm.”
    “I know what that means.”
    He laughed, kissed her again. “You’ve had it cradled since you sat down.”
    She glanced down, saw he was right. “I guess it took a knock in there.” She released it, took his hand to examine his knuckles. “You, too.”
    “Then we’ll take care of each other.”
    “Sounds good.”
    And it did, she thought, when he’d left her to find his quiet spot. Before the work, she rose, walked to her skinny window. She looked out at New York—safe, for the moment, from one of the monsters who hunted.
    And stood awhile, holding vigil for the dying.