She watched him emerge from the sea. There was a strange pattern of shallow scratches on his right arm. Like a supernova star. The water rolled off him and fell back into the indistinguishable sea. Better than new.

He slurred some pleasantries. He only wanted to sleep. He stumbled and tried to steady himself on the chain-link fence, grabbing her shoulder again. It burned like a star. She looked wonderingly at the place on her shoulder that was not marked at all. She watched him stumble and drift back through the shifting night.

Fever brightened his eyes, but she couldn’t see him. He was gone, and there was a hole in her day where they usually met. She tried to darn it, but time is such a fine fabric. He shifted listlessly, feeling the fever burn him up from the inside out. Fever is the body’s own defense against infection. Better to die than to live conquered.

She shifted listlessly, feeling her soul burn her from the inside. Somebody else’s existential pain oozed from the radio behind her in self-conscious moans. She had a sudden urge to shut it off, but then she’d have to move and express her own emotions. She loathed these hot sticky summer nights. It was really too bad that bottle of pills was on the other side of the room. Better to die than to live.

She emerged from the sea in darkness. She could feel every cool droplet abandon her, exposing her skin to night. The saltwater burned through the parallel deep cuts on her arms. But nothing short of a deep sigh of water could wash her clean of herself. Not even the shooting-star scratches, anymore.

She emerged from the sea like some water spirit, her blue-black hair plastered to her pale skin. A thousand diamonds adorned her skin, rolling down to rejoin the sea.

“What happened there?” he asked.

She whirled on him in surprise, not thinking to cover her bare chest.

“What are you doing here?”

“I always come here. To think. What happened there?” he asked again.

“Life. And the sea.”

“The scratches.”

“Life. And me. I thought you of all people would know better than to ask.” She gestured at his scratched arm.

“My arm- I- I-”

“First time?”

He took this as a metaphor for the entire bewildering universe and said nothing.

“You let the bombs in your head out and now you think you don’t have to watch it all explode again.”

“No. I don’t know why-. God, I’m so fucked up.”

She smiled gently.

“I know. The first time is terrifying. Take my advice- never do that again.”

He seemed to consider it, then stood up and walked away. She didn’t hold it against him. He’d learn to be filthy and broken.

Her head whirled with all the things unsaid. Wait, stop, I love you. Can’t you smile so I can pretend it’s all alright? Do that again every night for a year so I can love someone who understands me. But he was gone, drifting into the evanescent night.

He touched the Philosopher’s Stone on his arm. He turn lead into gold, love into apathy. Better than new.