Look at me.
It hurt him to move, and he was tired of being sore.
Look at me, the prowler thought, standing in the kitchen, steadying himself against the counter, focusing on his breathing. Transported for a moment to when he was in his twenties, before the darkness had begun to demand more from him, searching whether he was ever as innocent as his guest.
Words and drink. Drink and words. Stories. By the end of the evening it was beyond question that the boy was going to follow his invitation to join him at home for a nightcap, maybe crash on his couch. Stars in his eyes. Star field.
Falling stars. Fallen angels.
They rolled into his place and he asked him to find some vinyl to put on while he fixed them some drinks. The boy – his name was Tyler – was all of twenty-one maybe, had start
