died,” I lied, giving him the standard answer I’d given everyone else when I moved to town.
“Really?” he asked, studying me critically.
I was slightly taken aback by his response. I’d been greeted with nothing but sympathy when I’d let the lie slip on previous occasions. I always felt a twinge of guilt over it, but knew in the end it was necessary. “It was quite sudden,” I answered defensively.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he replied, finally offering up the words that I had grown accustomed to hearing.
“Thanks,” I said, not sure if his sympathy was genuine. Maybe he really was some psycho who traveled through small towns collecting heads and storing them in his trunk. I sucked down the contents of my glass once again. My brain was teetering on the edge of remaining focused on the noticeably rock-hard pecs beneath his shirt and becoming drowned by the liquor party that was flowing through my bloodstream. My tongue became numb while the buzzing in my head intensified, making me wish I could rest it on the bar. I contemplated climbing up on the bar so I could lie down, but even that seemed like way too much work. Instead, I tried to focus on my last coherent thought, knowing it had something to do with my head.
“Are you going to put your trunk in my head?” I asked, finally able to make my tongue work.
“Excuse me?” he asked amused.
“Wait. I mean, are you going to put your trunk in me?” I asked, though the question still seemed slightly off.
“Is that what the kids are calling it now?” he asked with open amusement.
“Wait. What did I say?” I asked, shaking my head in a feeble attempt to clear it.
“Well, darling, you asked if I was going to stick my trunk in you. Is that an invitation?”
“Well, shit. I meant, are you going to put my head in your trunk?” I asked slowly, making sure the word placement was correct.
“Just your head?”
“Unless you keep the whole body, but won’t your trunk get full if you keep the whole body?” I reasoned, pleased that I was able to form a coherent question even if it was related to my decapitation.
“I’m more a breast kind of guy,” he said, smirking.
Laughter bubbled up out of me. “So, your trunk is full of boobies?” I asked, giggling uncontrollably.
“Boobies?” he snorted. “I haven’t heard that word in like twenty years.
“Twenty years? How old are you?” I asked, giggling again at the idea that my one-night stand would be with an old man.
“Twenty-nine. What about you?”
“Twenty-nine? That’s not old.”
“Who said I was old?”
“Didn’t you?” I asked confused on why I had thought he was old.
“I only said I haven’t heard them called ‘boobies’ in twenty years. It’s actually closer to sixteen years to be precise.”
“So, ‘boobies’ is a thirteen-year-old-boy word?” I snickered again, not surprised at all. I’d been known to crack up over word choices for years. It was official. I had the mind of a thirteen-year-old boy.
After that, the conversation took on a hazy quality as Nathan ordered more drinks. I lost track of what my thirteen-year-old mind said, but I was pretty sure I asked Nathan to put his trunk in me again, which is what I was going for before the booze messed it up.
Chapter 2: The big head versus the little head
Nathan
I couldn’t help contemplating my actions that evening as I carried her motionless body into the small cottage in the woods. If lightning struck me at that moment, I could see where it was justified. The moment I entered the bar, I seemed to ignore every rule I’d ever set. My rules were simple enough that a fucking two-year-old could follow them. Find my target, evaluate the situation, contact the parties concerned, find my target, evaluate the situation, contact the parties...I never deviated from this routine for a reason. I had a job to do. A job I was good at. A job free from personal attachments. It was a routine that suited me well. Of course, the delicate brunette I held in my arms contradicted all of it.
I shifted her slightly in my arms, suppressing a chuckle as she let out a loud snore when her head rolled backward over my arm. I pulled her more securely against my chest as I carried her through the only doorway into the cottage. I didn’t want to admit to myself how much time I’d invested that evening thinking about what she would feel