Her face is open and kind. You’re more familiar with a shrewd, condescending look, eyes far apart, and cold. But it’s like yours, like hers.

​

     Your eyes meet and her pupils are big, swallowing the sky blue. She’s a little pink around the eyes, a little green around the jaw and you wonder — what is she? They remind you of when he’s high, flying saucers for eyes, and languid on the couch being sweet to you. Relaxed in a way you cherish and try your best to match against better judgement.

​

      She tilts her head, beckoning you to sit on the rock with her. So, you do. Your knees are a bit wobbly, never did like the water, sloshing the contents of your stomach around. At least, that’s what you tell yourself is causing you to feel all fluttery and shy looking at her smooth, slippery skin. She’s naked, resting her elbows on her knees. Her damp hair hangs limply, hitting her shoulders just barely and falling over her forehead when she tilts her head. It's long and dark, matted with some seaweed, but she smells masculine and salty and comforting. Her naked knee knocks into yours gently, and you feel like a kid, pressing yours back into hers, like she’s him.

​

     She smiles and you catch some pointy teeth behind her soft lips. You turn and look into the water, from this angle your noses look too alike, not quite angled right. Perhaps you could break it with a small, slimy rock, and it’d look better. Your hands tense at your sides, feeling exposed in the salty breeze.

​

     You ask, “What’s your name?” but she just shrugs and says, “what’s his?” and you think you understand what she’s saying in so little words.

​

     Her hand finds yours, and you let out a shuddery breath, and she knows. She knows and is – what? A stand in? An imitation of the real thing? Her hand is damp gripping yours, like she’d been swirling them around in the little tidepool by her feet. Her nails are long, fingers long and slim too, almost clawlike. They’re too graceful, too nimble and delicate. You want hands that have life to them, that have gripped you tight and shoved you down out of frustration. When you’re shoving back.

​

     You try to find something wrong, those little differences, like how her eyebrows tilt up a little rather than down, how there’s a shiny teal gleam to her hand wrapped around yours, how she’s being too nice. But the more you look for differences, the more similarities you find. Like how when you press your cheek into her shoulder, inhale her like his pillow, it’s broad and comforting. Her hair is the same texture and color, albeit a little longer, a little shaggier in a way his hasn’t been in years. And maybe her eyes are too close, too full of love the way his aren’t, but they look like yours when you look at him. You see your longing reflected in her face, studying the things that make her similar and different to you.

 

     When she opens her mouth to yours, her teeth poke your tongue, causing you to gasp into her. But maybe that’s how it’d be with him. Maybe it wouldn’t be nice, not really. You think he’d make it hurt if he ever gave into you, and that comforts you, that she is inflicting that pain onto you finally. She sucks a little bit of blood into her mouth and gives a content little sigh, like she’s thanking you. But you know you should be thanking her and her blue eyes. For giving you something he never would but could. If he wasn’t so afraid of recognizing what he saw when you looked at him. If you didn’t scare him with the enormity of love that swells inside you, noticing all those details that make you him, make you us and we.

 

     As a kid, you were afraid of monsters hiding under the bed. You’d make him look with a flashlight, double and triple check with little tears welled in your eyes. You never felt the need to be brave around him, knowing he’d be there, just in the other room. A worn quilt on the bed that you could run to, as fast as your little legs could carry you, if you got too scared during the night. He would check with a belabored groan. But when he turned back to you and said “told you there’s nothing to be afraid of” it was said with a smile, a pat on the head, ruffling your hair before you climbed under the covers. You’d stretch your arms out and ask for a goodnight kiss and he would, right on the tip of your nose, warm and wet.

 

     As you got older, you stopped being afraid of monsters hiding under the bed, but you still wanted that goodnight kiss. That moment of giving in, not needing to be brave, being able to run to him so openly, without pretense. You realized the monster was living inside you, not under you.

 

     She knew and he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind. Twisted little telepathy between you both, a crook of the head and twin smiles speaking for you. Maybe that’s why you found her.

 

     She’s taking the monster from you, making it – well, not right but okay. Letting you give in and give up.

 

     She doesn’t care if you want it to be him. She lets you think it is, the way her hand ensnares around your neck and angles your face down. Closing the gap between you and her and you and him. Her purpose, you think, is to flood your senses with him. Lips slightly chapped and menthol-like, a slight sweat on his brow. You even find a little gap between her pointy teeth. You’re giddy, drunk on kissing her and thinking about him. You don’t even care that her teeth are biting your tongue more, letting out more content hums and moans as she laps up the blood. You don’t mind that her hand is tight, too tight, around your neck, scratching where your hair meets skin. She lets you take, and you give in, more and more. Give her what you want to give him, what she needs from you.

​

     You feel lightheaded, thinking this is nice, it could be like this always. It could, but it couldn’t, not really, but you’re too dizzy to find flaws in your logic. Her face feels warmer, the fuzzier you feel. Almost like she’s actually him, ruddy cheeks and heavy breathing. Like she’s you and you’re him.

 

     In the tidepool, broken shells lay and watch. They see the secret, always lurking in the shadows of your mind and heart. They recognize the similarities, how alike you really are no matter how much he denies it. You loved growing up, latching onto nooks and crannies of him, wanting to share more than just blood and eyes. Above the rocky incline, you hear him shout for you, wondering where you’ve run off to now. Never could sit still, like a dog let off leash.

 

     She licks her lips, pinker than they were before she’d gotten her fill of your desire. You turn up, to look at where he’s standing on the edge, already looking at you. Your eyes meet, blue on blue and perfectly spaced. You watch his face, closed off, and see his eyes flit over her as you stand up, ready to face the climb back to him.

 

     You wonder what he sees when he looks at her. Is her hair lighter and floppier, pushed behind ears hiding gills. Is she taller, more lithe and limber, beaming up at him. Are her eyes big and bright, like yours?

 

     Does he see your face mirrored back, as she disappears behind the rocks.

 

     His hand grips yours, helping you back onto sturdy ground, back by his side, where you both know you belong.