About the Work
The narrator falls for a man by the ocean without seeing his face. He leaves before finding out anything more. The piece stays in that moment: what was felt, why it was fled from, and what the worm knows about tunnels.
Story
Last night I fell in love with a man. Slouched and nondescript, I caught a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye. I did not hear his approach. Insulated by the coastal winds, I could hear nothing but the mocking song of a disinterested tempest. Perhaps I could sense him, somehow feeling the billowing gusts resistance upon another compatriotic soul. Fearful of detection, shameful to be seen dejected and aloof at such a midnight hour, I fear I would not recognize him if we were to cross paths under the suns exhibition. When I rose to leave, tiring of the anticipation of spectatorship, I did not dare to look back at him. Shame drove me away, shame and fear. Love does not interest me anymore than the worm cares for water. Drawn out by its presence, I have always felt that love provides little else for the likes of myself than an extrication of confidence, a beckoning forth to a world that I do not belong, that threatens my sanctity.