The Hoist

She knew his shoe size, credit score, and medical history. His favorite comedian, restaurant, cup size, and position. He followed the dealership’s recommended vehicle maintenance schedule and called his mom every weekend. Videos and audios and socials, oh my. She knew him from every angle.

Wearing the high-waisted, faux leather, ballroom skirt and skin-toned lacy bralette, she waltzed up beside him and ordered his favorite drink.

“Make it neat,” she said with familiar inflection, drumming her red coffin-tipped nails.

A glance. Another. Afraid but intrigued, he took a third.

“Do I know you?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he said, “but if I’m lucky, that’ll change.”

Her laugh. “Forward, but refreshing. Thank you.”

Their fingers mingled as their eyes first met. From the safety of his browbone cave, he gestured a question. She nodded.

His chest felt strong beneath her palm. Hairless, she knew. He was hopeful. Sure heartbeats made themselves known in her fingertips.

His pulse. Her pulse.

His pulse. Her pulse.

“I’m Santiago,” he said, sliding her hand between the top two buttons of his shirt.

Metal fingers ejected with razor fine edges.

“I’m Alai,” she said, carving through flesh.

Cracking his sternum, she twisted and hoisted it out.