Tonight’s fantasy was Mako.
Not the shark, exactly. But the idea of the shark: the bullet-taper of its snout, the lunatic speed, the skin that felt like sandpaper one way and wet silk the other. Mako was a woman he’d seen once, diving a rusted rail bridge. She moved through the green water like a blade. She didn't swim; she cut .
She didn't flinch. Makos don't. They circle. They observe. Her eyes were the creek's deep bend—black, patient, full of cold arithmetic.
He touched her shoulder. First with one finger.
