She calls me “baby.” I call me a shadow, dead dude walking. “Darling,” she murmurs against my collarbone, her hips brushing skin gone cold years ago. “You’re thinking again.” Her naked shoulders warm against my carrion cold decaying flesh, and I want to weep at how my cold fever cries, but the dead don’t weep. Her fingers traced the cul de sac of where my soul use to be, now a dead end with arteries hanging in limbo. Like a Singer Sewing Machine, her teeth grazed my neck, not a bite but a stitch in time. Each puncture leaking formaldhyde like Selsum Blue killing the green flies feasting on my remains. She hummed my cock a lullaby “all night long, til the dawn.”
Her breath hitched when her fingers found the autopsy scar zigzagging down my abdomen, a crude Y-incision stitched shut with wire thick enough to leash a chicken. “They didn’t even bother to make it pretty for you,” she whispered, pressing her lips to my decomposing oozing bladder where embalming fluid pooled like swamp water. The scent of rot thickened between us like a like a dead cat on a hot tin roof, ripening with every thrust of her hips. I tried to groan but my vocal cords had dissolved into jerky last Tuesday. “No dead dudes chewing my remains.”
Her tongue darts out—not to taste, but to catalog. The way she traces the puckered Y of my autopsy scar reminds me of archivists handling fragile manuscripts, her touch both clinical and reverent. “They left you error-ridden,” she murmurs, and I know she doesn’t mean the stitching. The mortician’s haste shows in the crooked wire, the way my left nipple sits two inches higher than the right. Her fingers dip into the hollow where my liver used to be, now just a cavity slick with preservative. “Like a coffee house with no coffee,” she adds, and the absurdity of it almost makes me laugh. Almost. My diaphragm is too busy decomposing.
Her fingers hooked around my ribcage like a thief jimmying a lock—practiced, impatient. “You’re thinking in italics again,” she sighed, pressing her forehead against my sternum where the skin had split like overripe fruit. I wanted to tell her that dead men don’t think in fonts, but my tongue was busy liquefying in its grave of formaldehyde and necrotic tissue. Instead, the wire in my abdomen twanged as she straddled me, a grotesque harp string vibrating with every shift of her weight.”As she fucked me, she called me baby all night long, playing Solitaire”
