Aesir Tea

"I'm here to see Mr. Rasmussen," Moses told the front desk clerk. A holographic image of a porno projected from an old dream box onto the clerk's cluttered desk. It was the hotel clerk on a hospital bed. Two blond nurses massaged him as they took off their white dresses. The clerk waved his hand, pushing the blue image of the naked nurses against a stack of unread junk mail.

"Name?" the clerk asked, his eyes squinting. The bulletproof glass between us could withstand the attack of a hype looking for his next score, but not the fists of an angry troll evicted from his room. The Hotel Noble was a dump and anything but noble. Humans abandoned the old teetering hotels and lofts in downtown after the earthquake of 2016. Now only addicts, parolees, and refugees from Aesir lived here.

"Gunnir Rasmussen," Moses said. "The elf."

"No, your name," the clerk said, pointing at the lines of an electronic ledger that appeared below the plastic counter top.

"Moses St. Black," he said, signing the guest registry. He pressed his thumb against a glass pad on the counter. The dream box projected a new holograph. This one appeared next to his reflection in the security glass. It was him, three years ago. Before the murder and before his trial. Before his goatee went gray and the bags under his eyes turned black. Before his lips and the rims of his eyes turned violet, stained by the purple leaves of Aesir tea.

Today, he looked dead. That was an improvement from yesterday.

An expression of dull recognition took hold of the clerk's face. Two pupils and a slack-jawed open mouth bored into Moses like a slow drill. "Hey, man. Are you that cop?"

"Yeah, I'm that cop."

"Well...should I...I mean..." the clerk said, stammering. He backed away, suddenly aware that tempered glass could not stop a man who could put bullets in his heart with nothing more than a thought.

"Should you let me in?" he asked.

"Is the old guy expecting you?"

"No. But, I promise not to kill him." His long deliberate silence froze him. Moses smiled and the clerk laughed uncertainly. He nodded in the direction of the gate to be let in.

"He's on the roof," the clerk said. "Over Cesar Chavez Boulevard."

Moses pointed at the clerk, pantomiming a gun and winked. The clerk flinched. There was a buzz and the lock mechanism spun, admitting the uninvited guest.

As Moses took the stairs, he heard the clerk grab the phone. The clerk whispered a warning that the cop from T.V. was on his way up. "The cop from T.V." was a polite metaphor for "the guy who killed his wife." Murder makes headlines. Busting a slave trade conspiracy gets page 41. No one reads page 41.

Gunnir was convinced Moses killed his daughter. The jury said he was innocent. They were right but that did not make him feel any better. Gunnir's searing gaze as they left the court house tore into his ulcer like a hot Indian curry. Moses was a cop. He was supposed to protect Gunnir's daughter. He failed. Wishing Gunnir forgot was nice. Sure, Moses thought. It was too bad. Too bad he did not have more money and was not better looking. Too bad he was alone every night.

The City's ceiling had become ground floor for Sky Town. A maze of corrugated boxes, tents, and paper walls was home for the elves and trolls dumped in Los Angeles. Twenty years ago, bleeding heart Bible-thumpers brought them here from across the veil, saving them from a fiery armageddon. Once the Aesir refugees refused to reject their old gods, no more help came from the good Sunday people. Come Monday morning, the pagan sinners from the other dimension were forgotten.

Rooftop camps cantilevered over the streets and power lines crossed the still, gray night like a spider's web. Lit by storefront neon and silver headlights, sidewalks became tunnels, locked in eternal dusk. Above, refugee monsters sweated in a 117-degree soup of incinerator soot, waste, and Surami paper shacks. As an agent for the Dimension Immigration Authority, Moses had visited hundreds of camps up and down the coast. Each one was worse than the last.

The stairs grew steeper with each step. He patted his coat breast pocket to make sure the envelope was still there. After the verdict, he had sold his claim on Freya's life insurance policy to a debt broker for quick cash. It was money printed with her blood and he did not want it. One hundred thousand Euros was pocket change for beautiful people. For the rest, it was a roof and a bed for one year. For Gunnir, it was enough to start a new life. He was a chef back on Aesir. With the money, he could rent a stall in the Central Market on Broadway or set up a food wagon at Union Station. Or, he could hire a cheap street punk to kill Moses – one hundred times.

Moses opened the door and was greeted with a blast of cool, damp air. Busboys set tables and folded cloth napkins into water goblets. Slow fans turned lazily and overhead misters sprayed salt water into the air. A troll, eight feet tall and covered with warts, played an over-sized mandolin. Slow cords resonated with his smooth baritone rendition of Sinatra's Witchcraft. The soft glow of dim, orange lamps bathed the foyer and his greeter, a small Thai man wearing a black tuxedo.

"Welcome to Gunnir's," the maitre 'd said. With the faintest wisp of a smile, he nodded politely, waiting for a reply. "Are you here for dinner?"

"Yes," Moses said, finally broken from his trance.

"Right this way, sir."

Moses ordered broiled salmon with a white yogurt sauce. The apple wine, light and sweet, cleared the last traces of afternoon purple tea from his mouth. Like most Aesir faire, the food was simple and the flavors subtle. Moses had never had real salmon before. It was too expensive. This, he felt was a special night. The tender filet, dark pink in the center, flaked against his fork. The joint was posh. It was a good thing he had one hundred grand. He might need it for the dinner bill.

Moses watched Gunnir directing the help and greeting guests. His long silver hair was pulled back into a pony tail. He seemed to know an actor from that movie about the last farmers fighting for their land. Gunnir passed Moses with a pleasant smile, a quick "good evening," and nothing more.

There was no way Gunnir could afford this joint. Like most of the crossers, he ate at subsidy kitchens. Moses wondered if he had sold the broadcast rights of Freya's trial to a T.V. news station. Of course, money was only part of the equation. How did he get rid of the Aesir and trolls that lived here? Yesterday, tents and shanties covered the roof. Today, there was a hip rooftop eatery for celebrities and big shots.

"Will there be anything else?" the waiter asked.

"Yes," Moses said. "I want to see Gunnir."

"Gunnir is very busy." He tugged at his collar and tried to conceal a frown. Remembering his manners, he said "I'll see what I can do." He nodded and left.

Across the room, he pointed Moses out to Gunnir. The Aesir held up a long thin finger and mouthed the words, "I'll be right with you, sir."

Gunnir approached and Moses motioned for him to sit. His linen suit was crisp, apparently expensive enough to scare away wrinkles. It was a stark contrast to the old wilting figure that watched the trial wearing a mismatched pin-stripe suit from a thrift shop.

"I don't believe we have met," he said. "I'm Gunnir Rasmussen."

"You know who I am," Moses said after sipping water to clear his throat. The weight of the glass steadied his shaking hand. In his mind, he had rehearsed this meeting a hundred times. He would endure the shouts and the telepathic tricks of a broken old man. If sympathetic gang rooftop neighbors jumped him, Moses would bow to them as well as long as they did not want to throw him from the roof. His plan was simple: apologize, give Gunnir the money, and swear to him once and for all that he did not kill his daughter. He was prepared for verbal abuse, even assault. But not this.

"Is this your first time here?" Gunnir asked. Though pleasant, Moses sensed he was ready to greet the next table of customers. A busy restaurant awaited its manager.

Moses felt his jaw pop where it had been broken by the head-butt of a troll during a drug bust. "I have been here before," he said, biting his lower lip. "I don't remember it looking like this."

Gunnir nodded and reached for the sleek dream machine console next to the arrangement or purple iris flowers at the center of the table. "We have new moods programmed just this week: Maui Beach, Havana...Or perhaps you would prefer one of our original programs of local destinations: Mulholland Drive or the Hollywood Hills? I'll have the waiter bring you our best purple tea."

"No. No. That's not what I meant. The last time I was here, this wasn't here. It wasn't a restaurant. It was a..."

Gunnir raised an eyebrow waiting for Moses to finish.

"How long ago was that?" Gunnir asked.

"Eight months ago." Since Freya was killed, Moses thought.

"Perhaps you have me confused with another roof," he joked. "They tend to look alike. Flat mostly. Lots of rooftops, in Los Angeles you know."

"No. This is the place."

"I have been here for three years. I opened in 2033." Gunnir looked at him like a mental ward's doctor prescribing medication for the patient with 17 voices in his head. Gunnir was busy and he was ready to continue his rounds. "How was your dinner? The salmon was flown in from Norway this morning."

"Sit down. We have to talk."

Thoughts entered Moses' head that were not his own. A notion compelled him to show his hands to Gunnir. Telepathic suggestion was thought to be bad form, rude. Moses did not object. Without realizing it, he had already lifted his hands and held them on the table for Gunnir to see. Palms up and fingers extended, they no longer shook. Nor did they hold a hidden knife or gun.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk about Freya. Your daughter."

Gunnir held his breath, probing Moses for some degree of logic or sanity. "I'm sorry, but I have no daughter. I think you mistake me for someone else, Mr...?" He said, gesturing for Moses to complete the sentence with his name.

"I married her four years ago. I was working a gate for the Dimension Immigration Authority when we met. She was crossing. After we married, I got the papers to bring you here. This is where you lived."

"Affording a condominium in this town would be an extraordinary feat," he said, laughing. "Especially here. Renting anything more than a hammock in the basement of this building is beyond my means."

"This place? It's a charade." Moses shook his head. Gunnir recognized the cop's patience was running thin.

"I crossed with a labor contract from a culinary college," Gunnir confessed, lowering his voice. Humility was not fashionable in this town. "I'm still paying my loan back to them."

"Stop playing games, Gunnir. The medical examiner said she died of massive trauma to her brain from a gun shot. There was a bullet in her head, but no entry wound. You blamed me for her death. You said I killed her."

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mister...?" He asked again, intentionally lowering his voice to call for calm.

"St. Black," Moses whispered harshly, playing his game. He opened his wallet and showed Gunnir a photo of Freya. "Stop acting like you don't know who I am. I'm your daughter's husband and she's dead. I think you've been sipping too much of that tea."

"Perhaps so," he said, taking Freya's photo for a closer look.

Moses had been in Aesir tea dens before. Three years ago, he bought a dream box. A few sips of the tea, a flip of the switch, and he could craft any dream he wanted. As the effects of the tea wore off, peripheral vision became distorted. The dream shrunk like he was walking backwards out of a dark cave into the real world. The effects of the tea waned, dumping him back into his miserable life. For chronic users, the transition became abrupt and the high short – unless the tea was followed by a hard chaser of strong booze.

Moses rubbed his eyes. The restaurant was not an illusion. Neither was the hole in Gunnir's memory. There was no need for him to try to interrupt the program with his Disrupter. Gunnir looked at Freya's photo without any reaction.

"I made a promise to you that I would protect her. In the end, all I could do was rest her head on my lap and watch the color fade from her face. Her lips turned blue with her last breath. She died in my arms. C'mon," Moses said. "She even looks like you."

"To humans, we all look alike," he said, closing Moses' wallet. "She is beautiful."

"Was," Moses said.

"The memory of her beauty remains with you." Gunnir took another look at her picture.

After studying the photograph, he glanced in at Moses. Thoughts came. More telepathic suggestions from Gunnir. They said, release your feelings. Let her go. Let her go. Moses was stunned. Gunnir was actually trying to help Moses find peace.

"I would have been proud to have called her my daughter," he said. "Alas, I cannot. I am so very sorry for your loss."

Moses took his wallet. They stood at the same time, Gunnir smiling sympathetically. Whether he believed it or not, Freya was his daughter. The insurance money belonged to him. Moses reached for the envelope of cash, just as the waiter delivered the bill. Gunnir waved a finger and shook his head. He took the dinner bill.

"I can get this," Moses said, too late.

"Please. I insist," Gunnir said, holding the bill against his chest. "It is my hope that you can return for dinner soon." A large party waiting for a table caught the elf's attention. "Please stay for another drink," he said. "I'll call the waiter..."

"No. Thank you," Moses said. After they shook hands, he started for the door.

"I do remember you," Gunnir said at last. "I read about you in the newspaper. You're the police officer who arrested the slave traders. Hundreds of Aesir women owe you their lives."

"No. They don't," Moses said.

Double doors for an elevator had replaced the stairwell that was here on the way up. The maitre 'd watched as Moses pressed the elevator call button.

"You're the second DIA agent here this week," the maitre 'd said.

"Did you get the other agent's name?" Moses asked.

"No. But he was a crosser, too. An elf."

"Like Gunnir?"

"No. One of the bigger ones. Taller. And completely free from any charm."

DIA agents visit refugee camps to make arrests or arrangements for the disposal of dead bodies. Neither scenario applied here.

"Do you know him?" the maitre 'd asked.

"Yes. We were partners. He slept with my wife."

They called him Monk, not because he had some profound wisdom into the meaning of life. Nor was this Vanir devoted to humble nonviolent contemplation; far from it. He was 'Monk' because he owned almost nothing. He perfected the ascetic ideal. When they first met, Moses gave him a ride to his new apartment. In the trunk of his car, Monk loaded a thin mat used for a bed, six charcoal suits and shirts, two or three bowls, a box of plastic picnic utensils, and a couple of file boxes.

"That's it?" Moses asked.

"You people and your trinkets," he scoffed. Tall with chiseled muscles and blonde hair, his arrogance fit. "This fetish for things provides your world with all the slaves it will ever need. Let the Aesir chase your handbags, jewelry, and cinema." The Vanir bowed to no one. And no thing.

Highland Avenue bisected L.A.'s original old money neighborhood. Bleached white Spanish colonial mansions played hopscotch with California Craftsman homes and their yawning front porches. Only studio execs and lawyers could afford to live in Hancock Park. But even they did not have enough jack to afford a green lawn. Front yards were yellow patches of dead grass and weeds or brown and gray tangles of thirsty ivy and ice plants. Others relied on desert sand and cactus. At night, the scene changed. It was an illusion of what life was like 100 years ago. Solar lamps lit the yards green and video water sprayed from the lenses of projectors buried in the ground. The visuals were good and the crickets sounded real. But, there was no way to hide the heat. The dry smell of dust remained and it burned his lungs.

Twelve-foot stuccoed walls guarded Monk's home. Moses stopped at the front gate and waited for an intercom greeting. None came.

"Nice place," Moses said into the microphone.

"You should not have come," said a deep voice from the speaker. It was Monk. Static crackled, rising then falling. The rise, slow and deliberate; the fall was slow and incomplete. It was not static. It was Monk struggling to breathe.

"Let me in," Moses said.

Five long minutes later, the gate swung open and Moses pulled into the circular driveway. Monk's Nordic long-house was unique to Hancock Park. Dark logs, thicker than telephone poles, were laid one atop another to make the walls. The roof was a heavy green grass, just like the overgrown front lawn. As Moses got out of his car, the sprinklers shut off. The sweat of his shirt felt cold against his back. He inhaled air made damp by water evaporating from the concrete driveway still hot from an August afternoon. Grass this green could only be found in garden museums. Surely, Monk's house and yard were illusions. Moses pulled the Disrupter from his belt and entered his command.

"Discontinue projection. Police order. St. Black, Moses. Detective. Number 3781459."

Rolling the Disrupter between his thumb and index finger like a pen, he waited for the house and yard to fade away like one more Aesir tea hallucination. The disrupter beeped, signaling the execution of his request. The lawn was still green. Water trickled from a loose sprinkler head, running down the driveway into the gutter outside. Monk's house and yard were no illusions. They were real, like Gunnir's restaurant. The success of his business was no illusion either. Monk's firm scored security contracts with the world's elite. Not the politicians, but the masters who pull their strings. In a just a few weeks, he had more money than the Pope.

The tall front doors swung open and Moses was greeted by the house butler, a small Aesir elf dressed in a light brown tunic, belted at the waist.

"Right this way," he said, avoiding eye contact. He closed the doors, sealing them in the hall's gloom. The stillness was made heavier by the granite floor. Dim orange lights flickered ahead.

"Who mows the roof?" Moses asked.

"Sir?" he asked softly, afraid to make a sound. He motioned for Moses to proceed, down steps hewn from stone.

The interior of Monk's home was a Viking hall. The walls were planks of polished wood. Simple, decorative etchings were carved into the thick wood ceiling beams. On one wall hung a tapestry with red and white vertical stripes, large enough to have been a sail for a Viking long ship. The last glowing embers of coals burned in cauldrons hung by heavy chains from the ceiling. At the far end of the room, Monk sat in a Lotus position floating three inches above the ground, in the silver light of an overhead dream box lamp.

As Moses approached, Monk's aura of godhood faded. The tan was gone, his pale skin was a freeway map of red and blue veins and arteries. Muscles, once long and cut, hung limp from his arms and legs. His gnarled right hand, turned inward, laid lifeless on his lap. The right side of his face sagged, paralyzed.

On a small table, an empty white porcelain cup was tipped on its side. A dark purple ring stained the bottom. Next to the cup, there was a pot of boiled water and a plastic bag with a pinch of purple herbs, darker than ash dipped in blood. Clearly, Monk wanted Moses to join the Aesir tea dream. Moses poured the hot water into the cup and mixed in the leaf.

The tea smelled sweet, like a quick burst of licorice and chamomile, and lingering cool mint. Moses wiped several specks of tea leaf from the bottom of the cup and rubbed them against his gums. A cool breeze swept past him and his head swam. In his mind, he crossed the veil and was back on Aesir. The horizon and sky were the same shade of slate. Smoke hid the sun.

The Aesir were waiting in line to leave their world. After they passed, the gate would officially close. Forever, so it was said. Of course, those with the proper connections and sufficient wealth could still cross. Doctors examined the refugees for disease and scanners checked for weapons. Every crosser – Vanir, Aesir, troll, or giant – took a pill made of chemicals extracted from their own Aesir tea. The tablet was an instant truth serum. Like dream machines operating in reverse, video monitors showed Moses their thoughts. Memories of lives lived on Aesir were stripped away leaving only their designs for life in Los Angeles. He saw green gardens and family dinners around long tables. There were concerts on the beach and visits to museums. And blue skies. Cloudless blue skies. Obviously, none of them had ever been to Los Angeles.

As the day wore on, his attention drifted. Each naive fantasy looked like the last. Smoke from a world on fire stung his eyes, blurring his vision.

Medicated drops cleared his eyesight and the video monitor came back into focus. Moses saw himself. He was on a yacht sailing the Pacific. In his arms, a beautiful Aesir nestled her head against his chest, content. Moses looked up from the monitor and saw her. It was Freya, and she smiled long and slow. The orange burn of distant mountains ablaze created a golden halo around her face. If she beckoned him to follow her into the flames of the hottest Aesir inferno, he would have followed. Her seductive stare ensnared him. From that moment on, she was all that mattered.

"Freya," he stammered. It was like the first time he saw her – all over again. But this time, they already knew each other. She pulled back the hood of her cloak and wiped the soot from her eyes. She had high cheek bones and a smile that was almost too big for her face.

"I miss you so much," he said, barely able to utter the words before his voice cracked. He pushed through the line and reached for her.

She touched him, her caress gliding from the side of his face to his chest, stopping above his heart. As he reached for her hand, she moved away. Then she began to fade, engulfed by a dark tunnel. A gust of wind blew and Moses was back in Monk's hall. Her soft warmth still pressed against him. The effects of the tea had faded yet still he felt her.

Freya was here. He yelled. Her name echoed hollow against the cold stone floor and high ceiling.

Monk's rounded shoulders and back hunched, his head bobbed heavily. Was he nodding? Moses could not be sure.

"Access program," Moses said and the dream box dressed him in silver light. Moses drank more tea and squinted to protect his eyes from the gust of a strong wind.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Monk standing atop a shallow green hill. He wore a long tan obi, belted at the waist. Two guns were holstered at his side and a sword sheathed on his back. His grin was smug, like that of a gladiator evaluating an overmatched foe before the kill. The azure sky was too blue to be real, unblemished by even the faintest wisp of a cloud.

"Tell me what happened to Freya," Moses said.

"You mean you don't already know?" Monk asked. He lifted an eyebrow and frowned as he waited for Moses to find his own answer. "You killed her."

"I would never have hurt her."

"You caught us in bed together. Do not deny your fury."

She wanted Monk. Moses knew that. Her eyes followed the Vanir whenever she thought Moses was not watching. They worked late together and made any excuse to meet. Her fascination with Monk hurt. Moses tried to think it was nothing. Monk met a lot of women. Each one desperately wanted him to want her. To need her. It never happened. Monk was a Vanir and Vanirs kept no possessions. Moses had never spoken a word of their affair to Freya. Moses believed that eventually, Monk would grow bored with Freya. Then, she would forget him. Moses said nothing because if he had, he might never see her again.

"All those months you waited," Monk said, his breathing a loud hiss. "Hoping, one day she would give me up. Every night, you drank Aesir tea and programmed your box with the same dream: Freya coming home, begging for forgiveness, promising that she would never see me again. Saying she loved you. And every morning, you woke up alone, hung-over on your couch."

"Tell me how the bullet got in her head," Moses said.

"Is this what the great detective has become? The obvious eludes this solver of unsolvable mysteries." He drew a gun from his holster, and held it for Moses to take. A Police Department standard issue, it was Moses' .38.

"After you left us for dead, you went downstairs and wished everything would just go away. Freya was dead. And I was punished the worst way you could imagine. You sentenced me to a jail cell made of useless flesh, awaiting a death that is slow to come. Don't you get it? You shot her. Then you shot me."

"No. That's not what happened," Moses said.

The gun grew heavy in Monk's hand as he lost his strength. The effect of the tea was fading. He dropped to the ground, holding for Moses a gun that had now become heavy. His shoulders drooped and his body began to wilt. He lay on his side, curled into a fetal position. Gone was the bronze skin of a Vanir warrior.

A cool breeze washed the green hill and blue sky from their sight, and the fading light of the glowing coals flickered. The silver light of the dream box dimmed. Monk lay on the ground, his chest heaving and phlegm crackling with every shallow breath.

"Look at me," Monk said, gasping for air. "This is no way for a Vanir to meet his ancestors."

"That's not what happened. You're lying."

Monk turned to look at Moses, his head heavy on his neck. "Your true desire betrayed your spoken wants. Tell me. Freya begging for forgiveness...was that the only program in your dream box?"

Their affair changed Moses. There was nothing he could do to stop her. Pretending he did notice made Moses feel weak. And she knew that he knew. Yet still she saw him. The waiting for her meant nothing. Moses had helped her leave Aesir and then she betrayed him! His hands were tightly clenched fists. Monk was grinning with the good side of his mouth.

"That's it!" Monk yelled like a coach exhorting his team to play harder. "Feel your rage. Your hurt. We betrayed you. And you wanted to kill us both."

"The box," Moses said. "The tea. They make computer enhanced hallucinations. Nothing more than videos on a television screen."

"Before our world was born, there was Ymir, the father. Then, the First Ones came. They envied him, wanting his wisdom. And they killed him. The blood that flowed from his mortal wound filled our rivers, lakes, and oceans. Our world was made from Ymir's blood."

"I know your Viking myths."

"Not myths. From Ymir's blood came life. Freya harvested tea leaves from a spring of his blood. Blood that held the recipe for creation. For existence. And she carried the last of it. With Freya's tea, my company," he coughed, "Made problems...go away."

"What does this have to do with her death?"

"You loved her. And you hated her. She knew this to be true. Freya served you tea that night."

"No," Moses protested softly. Not to Monk, but to Freya.

"What pains you the most? Knowing Freya did not love you? Or knowing that she killed herself because she could never have me?" Monk swallowed hard and licked spittle from the dead side of his mouth. "She was only an Aesir. An Aesir can never hope to be more than a Vanir's concubine. She should have remembered her station."

Moses yanked Monk from the mat, clutching his long hair. He jammed the barrel of his .38 against the back of his head, inches from the pink scar of another gun shot wound. "You can sleep with your concubine again right now."

"Finish what you started!" Monk spurred him on. "Let me die by the hand of vengeance."

Moses cocked the pistol's hammer and pressed the barrel even harder against Monk's head.

"She was a whore," Monk said, his breathing growing more desperate.

"She loved you!"

"I could never love her," he coughed, out of breath. Whispering a list of names, he prayed for safe passage to the afterlife. "Redrick, Garrette, Olaffe..."

"I'm afraid your ancestors will have to wait," Moses said, dropping Monk to the ground and walking away.

"Don't leave me like this," Monk protested. "This is no way for a Vanir to die!"

Moses left. The raspy calls of his name echoed in his hall.

Moses' hands fumbled for the glass bottle with the English solider on the label. Did the old boy wear a blue jacket? Or red? He emptied that last drops of gin into the purple tea and watched the digital recording of his weekend with Freya on Catalina Island. Waves rocked their small yacht and he, too, began to drift.

"Alarm clock off," he said to his apartment computer, drinking the rest of the tea in one swallow. "Run program," he said to the dream box as he sank into the sagging cushions of the couch. A ceiling lamp bathed him in soft, silver light.

Freya's hair blew in the wind. Ocean spray wet their faces, and he could taste the salt of the sea. She smelled of citrus and sweet magnolia on a slow summer night that should last forever. Her orange skin turned bronze in the red and pink glow of the fading Pacific sunset. Moses put his arm around her. She rested her head on his chest and looked up at him.

"I love you," she said.

Moses leaned back and watched the night take the last gray light of dusk.

"I know," he lied. "I know."

John White is a writer of science fiction, fantasy, and horror. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and son, and their talking dog Chico.