The Taste of You

The nicest bar on Third Street served shots in grimy glasses.

I chose it because it was near and because someone was always at the bar, lamenting the uselessness of his life, the purposelessness of her job. I found a use and a purpose for them all and stacked them neatly in a stall in the men's restroom. Before an hour passed, the smell of blood and bodies rose above the smell of urine and mold.

Their blood alcohol level made me woozy, even diluted with the man who headed for the restroom before ordering a drink.

I overindulged a bit, but I'd been thirsty for days.

I might've killed Humphrey. With the animal in me now caged, I saw it: saw myself so clearly breaking his little neck that for several tipsy moments I was sure that I had.

A spotted mirror hung over the sink. In it, a sad woman stared forward in confusion, her skin mottled in the yellow fluorescent light.

I thought I was a saint, helping the kid. I thought he would never survive Lydia and Kevin. I hadn't realized that he wouldn't survive me.

Dr. Parrish knew. A few months, a few dozen visits, and he knew that I was incompetent. Too self-absorbed, too changeable to be an adequate guardian for a chihuahua.

I would take Humphrey to him. I would let Dr. Parrish handle it because he was strong. He was capable.

But the woman in the mirror knew that I was a liar.

I stripped the cash from the corpses' wallets. One hundred seventy-five and a near-full punch card for The Coffee Bean. Not my best day's work, but enough to pay the babysitter.

The bar stood halfway between my apartment and Will's. Since dinner only lasted an hour, and since I didn't want to stumble half-inebriated into the apartment after stumbling half-starved out of it, I headed for Will's place instead.

My knock at the door brought no one, as usual. Bastard.

When I got home, Humphrey was cheerful again, and the babysitter was in the midst of an all-out puppet show, complete with voices and plot.

"Oh, hello!" she said when she saw me walk in. "I didn't get a chance to introduce myself before. My name's Namid."

Namid was lovely. The crooked teeth were all I'd noticed before, but even they were charmingly crooked.

Sated and almost bubbly, I suddenly wanted to know everything about her.

But first, I went to Humphrey and swept him up in a hug, whispering, "I'm sorry," again to him, though I knew he didn't understand.

He pushed away from me and looked at my face. I smiled, teeth hidden. He seemed to relax a little, but he looked toward the babysitter as though he would rather be held by her. I didn't blame him for that.

"Poor thing," Namid said, and I felt the breath go out of me. She knew. All my caution, and now I would have to kill the babysitter. She continued, "Chicken pox when he's so little, had to be miserable."

"Chicken pox," I said, my voice stuck at a whisper.

"Looks like he's getting over it now, but it left some scars."

I almost laughed. "Yeah, he had it pretty bad. Sorry, I guess I should have mentioned that to the woman on the phone." I set Humphrey back down with his toys. "Sorry for the empty refrigerator, too. We just moved in."

Namid seemed to be relieved by that answer, as though she couldn't believe anyone would choose to live this way. I thought about adding that we'd left my abusive husband with his mistress in Vegas and didn't have the money yet to furnish the place.

"You have paperwork for me?" I asked instead. "If you don't mind waiting, I'll get it all filled out and you can take it back with you."

"Sure," she said. She went to the door, where she'd left her bag, pulled a folder from inside and handed it to me.

"Humphrey really seems to like you. Would it be possible for you to come three times a week? Say, Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays?" That would cover my counseling sessions plus hunting time, and I could keep extra blood in the freezer for the days in between.

"Sure," Namid said again. "Humphrey is a sweet little boy."

What was the proper reply to that? Yeah, I know, I tasted him? I settled on, "Thanks."

When she left, I tried Will's phone again, thinking that this was the third day I'd tried to call or visit him, and he didn't seem to be anywhere.

Will loved cell phones. He would wear the same pair of shoes until the soles deteriorated, but he always had the newest phone, the kind with internet access and a multi-language translator and dozens of games and a few laser guns on the side.

It was difficult to imagine Will without the phone bulge in his back pocket. And I could count the times he hadn't picked up.

But this week, he hadn't answered, and he hadn't called me.

Since my first vampire months, I hadn't been without him. I might've been halfway around the world, but if I needed to chat, I could call, and he would wake up, stop working, or make excuses to his girlfriend-of-the-moment.

Now, I had the sudden, startling feeling of being trapped on a rainy island with an infant and a traumatized psychologist, and no best friend to help me make a coconut phone.