It was my lunch break, and I was picking at a pale, watery salad from the corner store when my phone vibrated alerting me I had an email. The leaves of lettuce were cold and oversized so I crunched one down in my mouth before I checked my phone, flicking through a few things first before I went to my email. It was always hard to do just one thing on my phone.

The email was from Mike. He said he didn’t get out much—I could believe that—but no one with beer ever got turned away from his apartment. I resolved to stop by that night. I didn’t, of course. It was two days later I finally worked up the nerve. For one thing I was worried about seeing Xavious. He was such a creep, and if I could go my entire life without laying eyes on him ever again, that would be too soon. I did want to see Mike.

I took my time getting ready. I washed my hair. It was too dirty not to, but that meant I was a lot more limited in hair styles. In the end I left it loose, which is an uninspired look for me. My clothes were comfortable. I spent more time than was strictly necessary doing my makeup. I stopped off at the beer store to grab two six-packs which I stuck in my backpack. One was a very sought after local IPA, the other was cider. He was sure to like one or the other.

On the train ride over, I spent a lot of time looking at my phone. It didn’t have any more answers than it usually did. I did get to spend some time looking at Cinder. Jabberwocky’s profile was still up, and I felt weird seeing it, like I was just a stepping stone on some else's life journey.

The downtown had a different vibe than the part of the city where I lived. There the sidewalks were wider, and the window displays were cheerful, brightening the vibe of the whole street. It was empty this time of night and had a bit of a shutdown feel. I walked to Mike’s building, and the guard buzzed me up after calling Mike to get his permission.

I got off at Mike’s floor and had a moment of panic at the idea I was trapped. I couldn’t get the elevator to move again unless someone keyed me down. I wanted to be here, but I couldn't help remembering that feeling of being trapped in the elevator. I lugged my heavy bag of booze to his door and knocked. I went in when he said to. Mike was sitting on his giant cushion thing, but the apartment looked a little tidier, and I had the unsettling feeling it was in honor of my visit.

“Hey. I came back,” I said. That sounded weird. Why had I said that? There was no reason to think I wouldn’t have come back. God, why was I such a spaz?

Mike said, “You came back.”

He was just as good looking and strange as I remembered, but I had forgotten how nice his voice sounded.

“You want a beer?” I asked, still standing in the living room. “I’ll just pop the rest in the fridge.”

“Sure, but I can put them away,” Mike said, and he started to unfold his huge horse legs.

“No, it’s really no trouble. Can I bring you anything else from the kitchen?” I moved to the kitchen before he had a chance to get up. He hadn’t done quite as good of a job cleaning up in there. Dishes were still in the sink, and the whole place had sort of a low grade, dirty film on everything. He had thrown away the pizza boxes, and the dishes in the sink looked neatly stacked. His fridge was a collection of condiments, the tiny packaged kind from take-out food, some bottles of water and beer. It contained no actual food, making it the cleanest part of the whole kitchen. I pulled out a cider for me and beer for Mike, sticking the rest in the fridge before heading back into the living room. He had also cleared off the couch. It was weird to know he had cleaned for me, but weird in a nice way.

I handed him the beer. He thanked me. On the couch, I sat with my feet under me. There was music on in the background. I felt awkward. I drank. The result of which was that I didn’t feel very uncomfortable for long.

“What do you do? I know you do shipping or something, but you don't drive a truck.”

It was a very nice apartment, but I had a hard time imagining him out and interacting with normals.

“I telecommute support logistics for my transport company. People tell me what they need shipped, and I have a fleet of drivers with different skills located all over the country I can send out. It’s weird hours, but it’s interesting work. I like problem-solving and working from home. How about you?”

“I'm working the front desk at a hotel. It’s a lame job. I don’t even know that I like it. It’s one of those jobs you just go to so you can pay the bills, you know? I don’t derive any intrinsic satisfaction from it, but my co-workers are okay,” I told him, and we both sat in silence for a few moments drinking.

“Been on any magical dates lately?” he asked me with a hint of humor in his voice.

I smiled. “Yeah, I went on a weird one with a wizard. That guy was crazy.”

“Yeah?” he asked and looked at me.

“Oh, yeah. Are they all crazy?” I asked him, not wanting to go in depth on why the date had gone south. Perhaps after a few more beers I would be ready to go into the details of the erection that wasn’t and my failed experience with sex magic, but now didn’t seem like the time.

“They’re like anyone else, I suppose. Some are crazy, some aren’t. Actually that’s not completely true. Some races tend more toward crazy than others. Demons for example have a tendency to be totally bat shit. It’s why they have such a bad reputation. Vampires tend to be morose, probably from the lack of sunlight. You need to get a tan from time to time, man,” he said and flipped his blond hair out of his eyes.

He was good looking. As I got more acclimated to the strangeness of his horse half, I was more aware of just how beautiful his human face was. I told him, “A friend of mine, from work, a norm, is apparently on Cinder, too, and she was telling me vampire bites aren’t automatically addictive, and it’s more like heroin. You know, most people get really addicted, but some don’t.”

“Any time you have to use heroin as a comparison, you should already know it's a bad idea. Does it matter if everyone gets addicted, or just most people get addicted, or if all people get addicted?”

“Yeah, I think it does. Not that I’m thinking about signing up to donate, but it would help me understand the entire relationship.” In the back of my head, of course, I had been thinking about experimenting with being bitten again. I didn’t say that out loud. I also wasn’t sure if that was a sign I was addicted or not.

“Everything that isn’t a vampire is food. The end. That’s like the sum total of that relationship, and there isn’t any more. You can’t have a real relationship with something that envies your ability to walk in the sunlight and needs to eat you to survive. The power imbalance is terrible.”

I didn’t say anything and sat there drinking and thinking.

Mike broke the silence first. “We’re not all like that? You could have a perfectly normal relationship with like werewolf or a wizard, if you’re into that kind of thing.”

“What about you? Could I have a perfectly normal relationship with you?” All I’d eaten was a salad for lunch and the first beer was hitting me. I felt effervescent and daring. “Do you need another beer?” I asked before he had a chance to answer about the potential for us to have a relationship.

“Um, we can’t. Sure, I’ll take another beer, but I don’t—”

I cut him off getting up. “Great, I’ll bring you one back,” I said and went into the kitchen. I peeked in the freezer and was relieved to find some frozen burritos. Beer in one hand and cider in the other I walked back out to the living room. “Do you mind if I make myself a burrito?”

“No, but I’ll make it for you.”

He unfolded his front legs. His glossy black hooves flashed in the light. I wanted to ask why he didn't wear horseshoes, but I was too shy.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll just pop them into the microwave.”

I went back into the kitchen. I put the first burrito into the microwave. When it was done, I made one for him. I went back out holding two plates, balancing our drinks under my arm. When I handed him the plate I had to reach up slightly. Even sitting down he was huge compared to me. The burrito was nuclear hot, but I was so hungry I bit into it anyway, and burned my mouth like a dummy. “Fuck, ouch!”

“Burned your mouth? You know those things are hot right?” he asked. He hadn’t bitten into his. Apparently, he was either smarter than I was or had more self-control.

“I know! But I’m hungry!” I drank some cider and glared at my burrito. It didn’t cool off any faster. The burned spot of my tongue was numb and raspy when I moved it.

Mike took a bong hit. He looked dignified blowing out the huge cloud of smoke, but the incongruity of him sitting there with his huge TV and his massive bong made me laugh.

“What?” he asked, sounding embarrassed and paranoid.

“You. You look regal and elegant and out of place with a giant bong in your hands,” I told him and tentatively touched my burrito. It was cool enough to eat if I just took a tiny nibble.

“I’m never more at home than when I’m smoking.” He ate his burrito, and we debated the merits of different Mexican restaurants in the area. The best ones didn’t offer take out, so he hadn’t eaten at many of them. I wanted to ask why he didn’t go out to eat—it wasn’t illegal or anything—but I thought maybe I had already asked enough questions. When we finished, I took his plate back into the kitchen and washed the dishes. I cleaned all of them, not just the ones we’d used.

I enjoyed doing something domestic like this for someone else. It had been awhile since I had any reason to take care of anyone but myself, which, of course, meant I didn't take great care of myself. I found it much easier to take care of someone else. There weren’t a ton of dishes in the sink, and Mike didn’t cook much, which made it easier. Since there were only crumbs on the dishes and nothing baked on, I was done in no time. I neatly placed each of the clean dishes onto the drying rack next to the sink.

In the living room, Mike waited for me. “Did you just wash my dirty dishes?”

“Yes,” I told him and sat back down with my cider. I was buzzing now, fuzzy and pleased with the world. The couch was cozy, and I slipped off my shoes and tucked my feet under me.

“You didn’t have to,” he said, and he was looking at me. In his lap, he had his bong, but he didn’t take a hit.

“I know. I wanted to.” I took another sip.

He looked at me, and I stared back at him. His face was just so pretty it was almost hard to be in the same room with him. I wanted to touch him, to run my fingers through his hair, to pet his fur, to feel the line between his human body and his horse body. I was suddenly painfully aware he was virtually naked. He was wearing a shirt with two cartoon cats wearing ties, but his giant penis was there, just hidden by the back haunch of his leg. I was sure I could catch a glimpse of it if only I looked down. I didn’t. I didn’t dare look down.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, his voice sounding small and far away as if he was afraid of the answer.

“I—” I started but didn't finish and said instead, “To be your friend.” Which was the truth.

“Am I just a pit stop on your strange journey of sexual self-discovery and possible vampire addiction? Just some weird thing you haven’t fucked yet?” There was no anger in his words, just sadness.

“No! No way. You’re a kind person. A good person. Why wouldn’t I want to get to know you?” I asked, but I was still thinking about his giant horse cock, which I wasn’t sure I wanted to get to know, but thought maybe I did.

“We can’t be together. Not ever.” His voice sounded angry. He didn’t stop looking at me.

Somehow now that he was angry, I wanted to touch him even more. “You’ve said that before, and I don’t want to push you into anything you don’t want to do. I like hanging out with you. I feel calm here, safe. Let’s just be here now, okay?”

I felt small and vulnerable. As I spoke, I realized what I was saying was true. I was hiding here, hiding from the loneliness and the monotony. When he had saved me from Xavious, my brain had somehow decided he would save me from myself. How he was going to do that, I had no idea, but I didn’t want to leave this place.

“Yeah, okay,” he said and returned to smoking.

On the table in front of him was a Frisbee he was using as a tray. He tapped out the stem into it before packing it with weed from the grinder and sliding it home. Then he leaned over the tube of the bong and took the hit, his blond hair fell over his face. He was kind, good looking, and totally screwed. Here he was smoking massive amounts of pot alone in his dirty apartment he almost never left. How long had it been since he had company, other than me.