haptic

It’s not something you ever get used to, but you learned to appreciate the smell of formaldehyde.

To be fair, you could never work here.

The constant sound of the ventilation system would fry your brain around day four, and the idea of watching cold bodies turn grey under a buzzing neon, had never really enthused you. 

Gawon never seemed to care about any of that. Even now—caught in this numb tranquillity typical of someone who has been working far too many hours, she doesn't mind her gloves turning into shades of colors you'd rather forget.

“Classic,” she hums, as the poppy she planted on the dead body across the cot withers in an instant. 

“See?”

She lifts the body’s mangled arm in order to show you—the way it fights against gravity gives you the creeps. 

“Nerves taut beyond stretch, skin flayed in scales. Sixth one in these conditions just this month”

A small groan leaves your mouth as you lean back against a sterile white counter.

“We are on it.”

“You are on it,” she repeats, flat. “Any leads so far?”

“The report says something like the perpetrator must be a violent individual,” you say in an exaggerated tone. “We are working incredibly hard as you can imagine.”

“Oh, wow. Definitely.”

Between her hands the scalpel drifts smoothly across the top of each shoulder, courses downward to meet beneath the chest, before carving a single line to the lower end of the abdomen.

As she lifts the blade from the skin, a strong odor invades your nostrils, reminding you all the reasons why you never chose this path.

“Holy fuck. You have to do this everyday?”

“You get used to it.”

“Don't think I could.”

“You’d think I’m crazy but, it's actually quite funny.”

“Huh?”

“We all smell like shit when we die.”

“That's funny to you?”

“Of course. I'm never going to be that rich.”

“What the hell are you even talking about?”

“When I die, though, I'm gonna be as rich with stench as a dead billionaire. Isn't it marvelous?”

Gawon refuses to expand further, too absorbed in transferring viscous liquids between test tubes. You stare baffled, wondering if forensic classes came up with extra credits for obscure humor and opinions about class warfare.  

“I think you should breathe more fresh air. It’s getting to your head.”

“What?”

“The insanity.”

She laughs, like you are right. Like she’s aware of it, but it’s not a big deal. You can’t help but notice how much she changed since you used to share the same classes. Her big brown eyes now deeper, darker; she definitely witnessed more than any normal person should ever.

“Have you seen something? With the poppies.” 

“The usual mess. Darkness, panic, screams and it’s all over.”

For a moment she stops whatever she was doing, arms folded and face clouded over.

“My magic is growing useless lately. Two seconds is just two seconds.”

“You have an incredible talent,” you say.

She scoffs.

This is not what either of you imagined during college. Saying things used to be easier would be trivial. It was just different. The hurdles were nitid and defined—exams, professors, anxiety even, but your goals and ambitions were always there to keep the both of you going.

“Did you hear the news?” you ask, trying to keep the conversation afloat.

“I’m not seeing many people, not alive at least. If you didn't tell me, I probably wouldn't know.”

“Government financing a new project from Lysette Bouanich,”

“Lysette Bouanich,” she repeats, testing how it weighs on her tongue. “Who’s that?”

“Apparently a big deal in academics, thought you knew her. She managed to perform soul transmigration from a dead body.”

“Oh. Interesting.” Her tone remains flat, her eyes fixed on the tool she’s now flushing under the faucet.

“—to a goat, nevertheless. But I guess she technically solved mortality. Or so they say.”

“Or so they say.”

The copper stained gloves finally hit the bin, as she diligently starts scrubbing her hands with copious amounts of disinfectant.

“Do you think I’ll go jobless if they find a way to talk with goats?” 

You chuckle. Maybe you love her.

“This is the first thing you thought?”

“You never think about it? One day they’ll replace us all to cut costs. With talking goats,”

“I think we are safe. For the next fifty years at least.”

“Oh, that’s a pity.”

Gawon moves to the side and opens a counter you didn’t even know was there, revealing a full set of fine plastic cutlery and an endless stock of synthetic food. 

The jarring multiple stamped red logos, ALL YOU NEED, stare at you aggressively, as if you just interrupted an intimate ritual you were never invited to.

“You are eating that?”

“Well, that’s the plan.”

“No way. It’s not. I’m taking you to dinner,”

Gawon stops in place again, fork in hand and gaze lost in the void.

“Why the fuck did they use goats…”

“Is that a yes?”

“Uh-oh. Sure, I’d love to.”

There’s some pride involved in giving Gawon an excuse to wear a dress for once. You are not used to it, not anymore, but maybe you were. It’s the way the sun kisses her skin, or how her dark locks fall behind her shoulder, and those sparkly eyes shine with a light that’s not the cool white of the lab.

Nevertheless the pride turns into something else when said dress is tossed around somewhere on the floor of your apartment.

It’s a natural progression of excuses, from individuals too used to giving definitions and clauses to things that didn’t need them.

Restaurant’s coffee was awful

It’s so hot these days

Global warming really doing its thing, huh?

You should see my new kitchen, it’s lovely

Then comes a different kind of magic—one that has nothing to do with her poppies, and everything with how her long legs cross on your couch as she sips a glass of sweet wine. You have a lot of nothing to catch up on, and the room starts spinning around you in slow circles.

It was definitely something about global warming, the reason why your hands end up on the indent where her hips and waist meet, and why, of course, you are now showering together. But when her back starts arching so deliciously at every thrust of your hips, you’d take the whole planet down for her.

The scene is just steamy, for all the wrong reasons: skin-on-skin souring slaps, stabby nails scraping against the glass of the stall and breathless oh-gods.

When her hand presses on her clit, her knees quiver, and her body melts between sharp gasps and muffled swears.

She’s pure, slick heat, and she reminds you at every spasm. Between deep and heavy breaths her eyes go hazy and you follow suit.

“God-Gawon, please.”

She doesn’t need to answer, not even when your palms slip under the curve of her breast as you keep pounding into her, dragging and sliding along the walls. Again, she just presses herself more firmly against you, like there’s this slim possibility you would want to be anywhere else.

“Please. Inside.”

It’s a pointless plea, you are buried deep inside her when your legs turn into jelly and your groans catch in your throat.

She takes your hand when you cum, calls you baby, and she cries: please, stay like this. Please, forever. Please.

Hot showers always felt like fevers to you.

It’s a combination of things: the steam cooling on the mirror, the way the towel distractedly clings to her body, and more—how good her honey skin looks covered by a sheen of dampness, and how her dark eyes are now lingering on you.

“Is something wrong?” you ask as you stare back in the mirror.

“Sometimes I envy you.”

“This is a new one,”

You softly run the comb through her wet locks. The sweet scent of the balm makes your head spin at every brush.

Maybe the feeling has nothing to do with the nature of hot showers.

“You do something exciting,” she says, and you actually have to think about it.

“Most of my job is writing useless paperwork that ends up forgotten on someone’s desk.”

“You are lying.”

“I’m not. Besides, you could always ask for a transfer if that's what you want.”

She giggles, her head shaking as one finger draws lazy circles on your chest. 

“Maybe not. I think I like my deads better than my alives.”

“You are a weirdo, you know?”

“Shut up. And kiss me.”