Warren sighed into the battering ocean wind, a look of defeat dulling his generally spirited disposition. Sand and seaspray blasts his canvas jacket as he watches the tide overcome his ragged shoes, his face rapidly obscured and revealed through whips of stringy lengths of dark hair. His figure belongs in the most beautiful snuff film. The man eventually walks off as the sun rises from behind the oceanfront skyline, fighting hopelessly against his mess of hair flittering in the morning wind. His shape shrunk into the distance, a shadow among the blinding glint of water and sand.

In the bedbug infested motel room that I call home, I stand back from the umpteenth scrap of pulpy, tonal paper depicting his lanky frame opposing the battering ocean wind. In reality, he’s going through what will amount to his eventual divorce. For two or so months, he’s been visiting the same beach, throwing debris at the tides, spitting curses into the wind that commits them to secrecy with utmost efficiency.

He’s too preoccupied with his own life to notice another’s presence, as most people are. He has no idea that someone sees him, empathizes with his pain born of day to day life events. Is he aware that the monotony of it all only extrapolates on the whole thing? Maybe I’ll ask him one day. 

In charcoal and ink, he sees into my world in all of its scummy glory. On paper, he feels my love. On paper, I am his perfect match. The ink pools and drips, dragging clumps of charcoal in varying degrees down the pilling paper. Such delicate paper wasn’t made for wet mediums, but we aren’t made for such dull lives either. On paper, he can see me. We can bleed our souls to one another, shower in the warmth of love together.  

I pull the latest rendition from the clipboard and lay it to dry among the others that rest on the floor of the motel. The bedbugs I rip from my itching flesh add their effects, making barely visible trails across the wind beaten landscapes, adding a life and delicate movement that human hands could never muster. When they complete their task, I smash them into the edges of the paper and ink over the carcass. Their signatures.

I lay on the stained, worn carpeting, surrounded by the Warren that I watched from the cliffs this morning. I allow myself to rest for the long day ahead. All must be gathered from observation. From the first time I’d heard him laugh in the red Las Vegas heat, I’ve learned so much from his habits. His cuticle chewing, his tendency to fall asleep on buses, the ebb and flow of his failing marriage as consistent as the tides… The discovery of these inane details over time is the beauty of a living subject anyway. Let it build tension, allow my suspense to gather. It’s his daily gift to me. I drift off, dreaming of his masculine frame enveloping my own frame, his perfect counterpart. Soulmates.

The bell of the phosphorus plant rang through the town, signaling the end of the work day for the miners, or seven o’clock. I rise to shower and shove some orange slices down my gullet, wasting as little time as possible maintaining my existence. Assuming he takes his usual route, I have no more than twenty minutes to prepare in order to witness him today.

I shut my door behind me. I lock my door, room number 8, passing my angry drunk neighbor on the way. We don’t speak, but I see the violence shivering just beneath his skin. His wife is in for a long night. Here I thought 7 was supposed to be a lucky number. Guess it must be a matter of perspective. He gets to feel powerful when he comes home from twelve hours of hard labor and menial importance to have full control over that whimpering leaf of a woman. For her, luck must be something that offers solace earlier some nights than others.

I walk first to the dispensary. We are patrons there, Warren and I. He is beautiful when he peers at the jars of loose leaf cannabis, asking about percentages and sativas and indicas. He, like anyone, only has a vague understanding of the differences, but his contemplation is genuine. Like the choice will matter after it burns. Here, I’m just another customer looking to get high after a long day surviving in this society.

He is there today, of course he is. The workday is over and it’s Wednesday; 20% off day. His face is smudged with grime and dirt and his scent mixes with the pungency of the product. The combination is something of deep earth in conversation with once-living plants, both waiting to be burned into the atmosphere. It is at once gruesome and wonderful.

I am in line behind him, and I wait patiently. This is the closest we ever are to each other. Two steps and I could touch him. His pulse would quicken from the surprise. I could feel his heart pound in his chest. The blood would race from heart to extremity and back to heart at an alarming rate. The smell of earth would overwhelm me, the composition of his frame would take me in, his breath rapid and warm in my dirty blonde hair...

“Thanks, man. Have a good night.”

Of course, I will never be that close. I buy two clearance pre-rolls and rush out the door. The bell on the door announces my exit and I head toward the late night cafe. From the dispensary, he generally heads to the only bar in town, which happens to be across the way of the small coffee shop. I light one joint and inhale the stale smoke. I’ll never understand his fascination with this ritual. It tastes awful and leaves me tired. By all counts it is a waste of time and energy, but sharing in this activity makes me feel closer to him. The smell raises the flesh on my neck and arms, and I may as well be burying myself within him. When I smoke I am not alone; I am with the phantom of Warren. For that, I continue.

Dusk sets in tandem with the muted orange street lamps awakening. It never rains here, per se, but every night the airborne droplets of water wander from the ocean and coat the small town. I don’t mind it. It feels not dissimilar to a caress of the ocean herself. She is saying a fond goodnight to her land dwelling neighbors in the only way she can, even if it soaks through everything it touches. I shiver despite my admiration. 

“You know, it’s cheaper in the long run to roll your own.”

He steps into the light of a street lamp, a vision illuminated like an angel. The ocean dew clinging to the grime on his face and rolling off into the contours of his cheekbones and jaw. I cannot speak. He examines me slowly, a smile spreading across his face as he draws a dirty hand along the contours of my flushed cheek.

“Hey sweetheart. I’ve seen you around lately, are you new in town?”

His words are smooth, expertly carved by tongue and teeth and lips. He addresses me, a shadow, like something worthy of knowing. My blood betrays me, and I shrug, taking a drag from my stale and now damp joint.

“Something like that,” I say, trying to maintain my composure. 

“You’re always alone when I see you. Surprising for such a gorgeous creature. I’m just heading for some drinks. I’ll buy you one. You look lonely, and I could use some company.” 

He smiles while he speaks. This is not the smile he offers to his wife, the woman that causes him so much grief. The smile I followed from the casinos of Vegas. No, this smile is specifically for me, his soulmate. The spread of his lips revealing slightly stained teeth, an open book. An opportunity. 

“I could use a drink, sure.”

“Great! I’m Warren, what’s your name?”

“Call me Esther.”

I pass him my clearance weed and we take turns smoking as our clothes slowly absorb the atmosphere. 

“Do you ever think about why everyone wants to live by the ocean? I mean, they say it’s beautiful, but a lot of things are.” I speak without thinking. “It’s just, objectively, it’s no more than a massive body of water. If it were simply the beauty of it, we’d all flock to the lakes or rivers. Which I guess makes sense with our inherent desire for survival just…” I realize I’m rambling and cut myself off. I look up at his figure, he’s walking so confidently. He pauses a moment before answering. I memorize the curve of his neck, the sharp cut of his jaw against the night.

“You know, most people start with asking about birthdays or favorite colors.”

He leads the way toward our shared destination and I follow, conscious of the breadth of my stride and the depth of my breath. Both are impaired by the proximity to this beauty. He could be carved in marble, capturing the elegance of his movement. Nations would go to war to display him in museums.

He stops walking to turn and look at me. From so close, his smile is enrapturing. I almost forget to stop moving my feet. I look around and realize we’ve long passed the bar. I realize I have rudely ignored his comment and mumble a flustered “Sorry.”

“No, it’s an interesting thought. I guess I feel most at one with the rest of Earth when I feel water in the air soaking through my clothes. Like right now. It’s freezing, but it’s real.” He says this as much to himself as he does me. I can hear the waves crash, there are no street lights. If not for the fog, the stars would be brilliantly visible.

It feels as though he has heard me speaking to him through sketches, as if I have created this man, or as if he has created me. He has hardly broken eye contact since we stopped walking, I feel obligated to respond as well as meet his gaze. I will not be the one to look away. I immediately look down.

“So, people want to look into the void?” I ask, watching my feet move in their subtlety, feeling his gaze. 

“Maybe they want to feel like the void could look back. We’re all always looking for God whether we know it or not.”

I nod and start walking again. It’s getting cold, and Warren is too close for me to think about Warren. He follows with the cool confidence that he carries with him everywhere. He flanks me quietly, occasionally brushing his immaculately calloused hand against my own. 

Eventually, I make my way to the bar. I can’t stop seeing his wife as I walk. Her auburn hair, the screams of rejection outside a Vegas casino, the tears that stain her face every time she is out with Warren. How could she be so miserable next to such a thoughtful creature? I glance back at the man and try not to smile. I’ve been incredibly lucky tonight. Why, then, do I feel worry gripping my throat?

The bar is bustling with its usual patrons. Fishermen that smell of ocean rot, lonely and brash women, the bartender that mans the drinks every Wednesday night. From the cafe across the street, he looks young and confident. Up close, the wear of dealing with belligerence is apparent in the crinkles that span beneath his eyes and around his lips. 

“Hey, can I show you a project I’ve been working on?” This is the first question he’s asked, and I agree before finishing off my pint.

The fog has more or less settled by now, and I can almost make out the stars. I stumble, but Warren holds my balance through interlocked fingers. I can feel Warren’s anticipation growing as we walk hand-in-hand toward his home in silence. 

The sound of crashing waves fade as we gain ground and elevation. It occurs to me from beneath the murk of the alcohol that he lives with his wife. Will she be okay with a strange woman entering her home, hand in hand with her husband? I wonder if she’s ever been okay with anything in her life. This is not my concern, however, and a small, devious pride radiates from within my chest. This idyllic man has seen me, and respects my opinion enough to show me something despite the potential objections of that miserable woman.

We arrive at his door, one that I have viewed many times before. My heart skips beats as he fumbles for his keys. I lean against the rotten railing of the porch, fighting to keep my consciousness level with my eyes. The house is dark, she is asleep or gone. I close my eyes and listen to the deadbolt slide with the turn of his key. I can hear his breath hitch as he grabs me by my waist and leads me into the darkness.

He sits me down on what feels like a plastic lawn chair. The room is spinning and dark and I can’t seem to ground myself in reality. The deadbolt clamps into the wall and a chain lock slides. I hear him walk in the pitch black of the room. I drift and briefly dream of the desert sun on my face. Its warm caress nurturing the Yuccas of home, speckles my skin with freckles and blush. I question, in a moment of insecurity, why I came here at all. To this house, to this dingy village. Is the pursuit of God’s image of the perfect man worth the beauty sacrificed? Too late now.

I come to with Warren’s dirty hand striking harshly across my flushed cheek. I feel Warren’s hot breath touch my lips and open my eyes to see his gazing back. They’re aggressive; perfect. He kisses me in his beer soaked splendor before speaking.

“It’s not finished yet, but I think you’ll see the vision.”

He flips a switch, but I feel his gaze on me. A muted light illuminates the space behind him and he backs away to reveal his work of art. His wife hangs from the ceiling by a thick length of rope, grotesque and serene. From her gaping mouth protrudes electrical wiring, a string of lights illuminating her decaying flesh delicately from within. The light, dimmed from layers of graying skin, is romantic in its way.

He stares lovingly at his abhorrent masterpiece. Looking around the room, I fixate on the mess of papers erratically pinned on the walls. They each depict her face, distorted and crying in pastels. One, taped onto the screen of an old television, is of another woman. Hair short and blonde, smoking from the edge of a cliff. My own eyes burn on paper, emotionless and steady. 

“She thinks I’m crazy, you know” He speaks from behind the chair I sit in, stroking my matted mess of pale yellow hair.

“She doesn’t believe in fate, but I see you everywhere. On the bad days I search for you, find comfort in your presence. She doesn’t believe in my vision, but you do, don’t you?” He doesn’t wait for my response.

“Of course you do, I work with your neighbor you know, that pig of a man. He mentioned you once, said he saw into the room of this ‘fine piece of ass’ next to him, that it was covered in pictures of me. I’ll spare you the details of his perverted imagination.” Warren kisses my forehead, inhaling deeply before stepping around to face me again.

“I’ll spare you from every man’s perversion.” He wipes the tears that mark my face. I close my eyes and focus on the rhythm of my breath, smiling despite myself. I imagine sun warmed sand between my toes, dry winds battering sunburnt skin, catching defenseless lizards. I’ve always understood life to be a fleeting experience, I should be grateful that it is by the hand of this man, this perfect image of God. 

That’s right. He sees into my soul, filling me with love warmer than the sun from my memories. His presence alone purifies me. His gaze is the sun watching over my childhood, smiling along with my mother, encouraging the blooms of the cacti. I watch helplessly as he procures a finely sharpened blade the length of a finger seamlessly from the pocket of his soaked through canvas jacket. He blesses me with one more kiss, rank with life growing within the spaces between his teeth. He is godlike in this moment, more than ever before. All these months I thought I’d been invisible, quietly observing my muse. And yet, here he stands, peering back into me.

The sound of my tearing flesh is short lived, it is a clean cut. My blood is soon soaking through my shirt, warming me down my shivering chest. It has flecked lightly onto Warren’s loving expression. I feel myself smile as I watch him lick my life from his lips. This is what love feels like, they always said it hurts, but the pain pales in comparison to the joy. I only wish I had the strength to thank him. He is shivering- prideful pleasure radiating from him as he beams at his work. How lucky I am to have such a magnificent view as my vision fades. What an honor it is to know that I am the cause of perfection’s ecstasy.