Beach Blanket Ballet

Today I tell him to call me “Katerina,” because I want to think of cats and of ballerinas. Today I want to be a creature capable of complete and unrequited love, to be a thing of pure devotion who asks for absolutely nothing in return, not even breath or life.

Today we are going to the beach, where I shall be buried alive.

He drives one of those large, foolish, extravagant vehicles that serve no useful purpose in the city, but that comes in quite handy when we need to drive out across the sands to some isolated place where nobody will wander into our games, finding alarm or offense at what they see, or what they think they see. As the powerful engine thrums and hums us along across the sandy shore, I look out the window, laughing with delight, pointing at the gulls. I make faces at the somber waves, with their relentless cresting and crashing.

Griffin—that is what I am calling him today, because I want him to be a beast, a monstrous amalgamation of predation, the kind of thing that devours without any understanding or appreciation beyond the fulfillment of its own hunger—loses the smile and merriment that he had the whole drive here. His mouth turns to a slight and cruel scowl, and his eyes darken. When he looks at me, he has the unreadable eyes of an eagle. He’s getting into character, and I feel my heart swell with appreciation for all the ways...