Tropesick

Tortured Poet on a Nightmare-Induced Tangent

Henry, that night, barely slept a wink. And when he finally closed his eyes, all he saw was Willa. She was on some sort of

raft. No, a kayak. No, it was a canoe. It was a canoe, and it was docked, and the night was dark, and the water was still,

and her body was low and relaxed in the hull, and that landscape architect was pulling her closer, learning her skin, kissing

her neck and peeling back things, and Henry couldn’t stop it because he’d started it.

Years and years and years ago, he’d started it.