My wife has brine instead of blood. She’s full of the sea. I can taste it in her sweat, her tears, her sex. She’s quick and crafty. She’s lunar. She’s tidal.
Men look at her. I don’t need to see their wanting her to know that she’s a catch.
Love, if you’re lucky enough to have it, need nurturing to survive the first flush of the fairy tale.
For Mark, who whistles.
Honorable Mention Longlist in Ellen Datlow’s Best Horror of the Year 5 (2013)