Bodies Are Disgusting by S. Gates Page B

them, but the
repetition of shifting papers adds just another soothing layer to
the patina of "ordinary" that's beginning to set in. JD teases you
mercilessly about getting into a wreck to beg off of work when the
warehouse is at its coldest and least comfortable. You take his
words for what they really mean: "I'm glad you aren't
dead."
    By the time you've run the paper and bundled
the stacks set to mail and the stacks set to be placed in the
dispensers, you're bone-weary and aching. It takes every ounce of
self-discipline to drag your sorry carcass home instead of passing
out in your rental at three in the morning. It's a very near
thing.
    Through the grace of God and caffeine (which
are one and the same in your mind now), you stumble into your home
and manage somehow not to bark your shins on anything in your rush
to get to the bathroom and out of your work clothes. You have ink
smears on your hands and arms, smudges on your face, and you
managed to pour soda down your front. The only thing that could
prevent you from soaking in the shower is a lack of hot water (a
problem you know for a fact you won't have to deal with, given the
size of the water tank in this house).
    You don't bother with any lights; there's
enough glow from the street lamps outside filtering through the
bathroom window for you to stumble your way through disrobing and
crawling into the shower. The first blast of water that hits you is
frigid, but it warms quickly enough that you don't even have time
to jump back. The hot water pelts your skin, the warmth soothing
away some of the residual soreness after a while. You let your head
tilt backward and rest against the tiled wall at the back of the
tub.
    * * *
    The water has gone cold.
    You don't remember shutting your eyes, but you
know you must have if the shower turned chilly.
    The knobs of the tap squeak, and the water
slows to a trickle at your feet. In the gloom, you see a slender,
pale hand disappear on the other side of the shower curtain. You
want to push yourself up, jump away at the start of someone
intruding on your shower, but your limbs refuse to move. All you
can do is stare ahead, wide-eyed, your heart beating quick and loud
in your ears.
    The curtain draws back, and you lay eyes on
the skinny form of Ori. This time, they are completely nude and
even in the dim light you can tell that they lack any sort of
sexual definition. Their skin is so pale that they practically glow
as they step gracefully into the tub with you. There are no
nipples, no navel, not even any signs of how their body expels
waste. You can count every rib, separated as they are by little
gashes that might have been gills if they'd been born in the water.
Through the shadows you can see their pointed teeth glint like
little ivory jewels.
    "I can't leave you alone, can I, Douglas?"
They kneel between your legs and curl forward to rest their head on
your chest. "I turn a blind eye for three days and you somehow
manage to attract the attention of my nearest, dearest, and most
bitter rival. Whatever shall I do with you."
    After expending a bit of effort, your tongue
decides to start working again. "Could always just give me up as a
lost cause."
    Ori hisses against your chest. "That is not an
option, dearest Douglas. You are too valuable for me to simply let
you go." They bury their nose in the hollow space between your
breasts, clamping their arms around your ribcage to keep you from
squirming away. "No, I believe I shall just have to keep a closer
watch on my investment. It is simply unfortunate that you should
draw the attention of the Breaker. He is not known to be gentle
with those who catch His eye."
    You swallow, your throat feeling suddenly dry.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
    The strange creature wrapped around you heaves
a sigh. Their fingers trail up your sides, skate across your chest,
and brush lightly against where your trachea is closest to the
skin. The places Lucien dug in his fingers blaze like fire