By Jillian Bost
Violet jerked awake, her heart thudding like a thick fist against an iron door. She tossed away all outside sounds and sat up in the bed, clutching the blanket to her chest.
Yes. She heard it again.
With shaking fingers Violet threw on a robe, hurried into the living room, and flung herself onto the couch. She reached for the remote, then hesitated. She left the television, and the lights, off.
The shadows elongated in the vague moonlight spilling through the thinly-opened curtains, and tried to coax her to come out to them, and be enveloped in their skeletal embrace.
The next bang came seconds or years later. Violet crept to the front door and peeked out through the peephole. She sucked in a gasp and grasped the lock by instinct.
The man on her front stoop was over 6 foot, and solid like a side of beef. His hair was stringy, clothes drenched. Even through the door, she could smell the sea. His face had been nibbled on by innumerable fish.
He was beautiful. Violet unlocked and opened the door, and held out her arms. “Come here.”
He lumbered forward into her embrace, and she held him tight.
Tears spilled over, and she slashed them away with the backs of her salty fingers. “I’ve been waiting for you a long time,” she said, voice as tender as a baby bunny. “I’m going to take care of you now.”
Seawater dribbled from his gaping mouth, and Violet smiled.
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