He is still glad that he met her while the skies were on fire. Those nights, walking along exposed wire.
He is in his snot shower when he realizes that his dirty hair smells exactly like her dirty hair and remembers that her toenails grow too. The way they cut their toenails together, his right foot pressed against her left sitting on the floor and both starting to saw on an opposite outer pinky toe. Flesh pretzel yum. Her giggles when he would use his shotgun on some alleybum and stick his cock into the corpse while booze vapors drifted from the wound. Her pupils going wide, her breath speeding up when he would finally stuff the bumbody into an empty Campbell’s soup cup, grind the whole mess into the ground by the toes of. Those wonderful days before the widow junkies.
Her house is breathing the night it starts to rain purple and hot. The steam curls in to humiliate him through cracks in the floorboards. He sputters up, a sinus blaze. He makes sure the light still glows in her eyes before going downstairs. Each socksuck on a floorboard is a life of shame. Still he sludges on.
Peeking through the curtains is a blade in the back. A glow electric is settling down on their streetlives. A plasma oppression. He has a faceflair and backs towards that closet. He needs the hooks, for her, for both.
He is halfway up the stairs when the walls start to buckle, when the scream of the widowlovers cracks mountains. Nails into wood he climbs to her crawls through acidgut terror wants to shove her off proper. He thinks of burials at sea.
She reanimates scared and wanting. Her lips curl and stretch in appreciation. He is already putting the hooks in, winding the ropes. It has only taken him three days to learn. She’d told him that the star rot was coming and he’d been willing to learn it all. Both hooked in, he turns the last crank. They come apart together, pure rotbliss, victory untaken by widowmakers.