• He walked to the door of his lover's apartment, ignoring the chilly, desolate rattle in his knees. The click of bone echoed garishly in the empty wind as he reached for the doorknob.

    It was locked. Very decorative, he mused, tracing a narrow fingtertip over the gold-plated filigree surrounding the doorbell. He thought of the night they met; he had a red gerbera pinned to one wiry shoulder; she was resplendent in a black satin dress and gold necklace.

    He'd been nervous as hell, clenching a strong jaw as he walked across the room. Things had been different then; when she grazed his cheek, her touch was incendiary, and he felt the flesh there quicken. It had been chaste; they'd kissed once, and he offered to give her a ride home. Though it had been cold that night, as it was now, the air in the car was still and almost unbearably warm. The heat seemed to intensify with each mile that rolled past.

    "Do you mind if I smoke?"

    He'd shaken his head and rolled down the window for her as she lit up. He glanced at the desk calendar fastened to the dash and took note of the date: October 13th. Anything to avoid the sight of that slim white cigarette between those red, red lips.

    He'd been a painter. The canvasses from his latest project, freshly stretched and prepped, lay across the backseat. The metal container of turpentine lay on the floor below.

    She gestured emphatically and lauged, recounting a fond memory of a girlfriend's bachelorette party.

    A spark. He saw it from the corner of his eye.

    He knew now that he'd carelessly left the lid of the thinner ajar. He couldn't shake the awful shriek she gave as the slik material of her gown caught, then traveled...

    He'd managed to put it out, and they'd laughed nervously. She was shaken, but seemed unharmed. He dropped her off and watched as she silently slipped away.

    Things were different now.
    They were different now.

    Tonight, he was returning to check on her, make sure she was all right after their scare the night before. He tried the knob again; it wouldn't budge, but when he gently pushed on the door, it gave easily.

    He stepped into the post-modern gloom of her apartment, tried the lights. No such luck. He fingered the crisp flower at his shoulder; a petal, red-brown, broke off and drifted gently to the floor.

    The curtains were slightly askew in the tiny back bedroom; her still, silent frame reclined belly-down on a foam mattress on the floor, the arm pillowing her head extended toward the door. Scraps of dark silk hung from her frame. She'd always been thin, but she looked so frail and damaged like this...

    The rough waves of hair were gone, her face's delicate framework exposed and glowing ecru in the dim light. Her waist's slender curves, the soft flesh of her wrists...where were they now?

    He tried to close his eyes and found he couldn't. He was unable to bite his lip in horror, because there was no lip left...

    -----

    He woke with a start and shot up in bed, gasping and sweating like the protagonist of a bad horror movie. His forehead was damp, yet fleshy.

    Something was wrong. He smelled the unmistakable odor of decaying flesh and char. Slowly, he lay back down in the bed, glimpsed the Mondrian calendar on his wall.

    October 13th.

    He looked at the clock. 11:00 am. He took a sleeping pill and a half, pulled the comforter over his head.

    He would not go out tonight.