She hated how everyone called it a reconciliation. They hadn't meant to come back together, but his stars kept falling from her skies and landing at her feet, and a girl could only fight for so long before she had to give in to the fact that sidewalks and billboards and the noises of passing cars were trying to tell her something.
He thought of foot-long poisonous centipedes in Venezuela that climb the sides of the caves of bats and dangle until they catch a flying creature in one of their many pairs of arms. And then he thought of Mayflies, who live underwater for two years and then, rising to the surface and molting to find themselves without mouth or stomach, are given only half an hour to both take to the skies and find a mate. There were, he figured, only certain currents that were worth fighting against.
Monsters have a way of multiplying when they shatter, scratching up the linoleum with their sharp toenails, stealing the cool on the other side of the pillow. She rests her chin in her hand and contemplates the sleight of hand required to steal all the eggs from his pocket and hide them in the bread basket. He eyes her over his wine glass, deciding to block the way to the exits if she makes a run for it. He's stolen her life jacket, but she's bought herself a ladder.
(Finished. I'm not making any more bets without agreeing on the terms first. Others: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.)
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