Star-clad, the apparent female flowed across the room. Rays of white streamed from her shoulders, forming lazy double arcs above her head before rippling to the ground. The arcs undulated like the gentle waves of south Atlantic shores.

She stopped at Marc's table and spoke softly, her voice a cross between crashing surf and burbling stream. It both bathed and blistered his ears, like a beautiful melody played too loudly. He didn't bother to look up. He knew from experience that even glancing at one of these creatures only caused him more bitter-sweet pain.

“You give off the scent of depression,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, trying not to wince at the sound of her voice. “It's been a few weeks since I was near a shower, so I'm sure I give off a few other smells, too. Why don't you just leave me alone?”

“You also stink of fermentation,” she continued, ignoring his comments. “There is no need to continue in such a state. I will be happy to bathe you, both body and soul. Come with me.”

Her last sentence carried with it the tone of command. It was a voice pitched to induce obedience. Indeed, men and women from surrounding tables began gathering their things and migrating toward the creature.

Marc, however, did not move. He forced his rheumy eyes up toward her face. With a defiant scowl on his pock-marked face, he replied, “Didn't you hear me? I told you to leave me alone. Perhaps in your culture that's an invitation to socialize, but in mine, it means to buzz off. Fly away. Go back to where ever it is that your type congregates. Why is it that you guys never come down here as a group? You always appear solo. No, wait. I don't want an answer. I just want you to leave. Got it?”

He looked away, pulling the bill of his cap down so that all he could see was the half-empty glass of beer in front of him.

“Your liver is diseased, and so is your stomach,” she continued. “There is no need. Why haven't you been made whole? Surely you don't refuse health and life?”

Marc ignored the creature. He held his breath as she moved closer, so her intoxicating scent wouldn't overcome his will. Supposedly, they didn't deliberately emit that bewitching bouquet. According to local folklore, it was just part of their essence. Marc snorted to himself in disbelief. Unfortunately, in snorting, he inhaled too much of her aroma.

? ? ?

The smooth, pure stream of Life, unfettered by pain or anxiety, by guilt or blame. Health, flowing through all limbs. The soul, freed from its chain of sorrow. Blue humped-back whale splashes. Eddies in their wake that drowns the soul in perfect, perfect Peace. Drowning. Oh, God, drowning. Choking on the bitter liquid of love. Coughing. Vomitus fluids gushing out. Streams of Serenity pouring in. Filled to bursting. Oh, the pain, the agony, the nightmare of bursting – with Serenity pumping in through a never-empty fire hose.

? ? ?

Marc looked at his empty beer glass and sighed. He turned to the bartender.

“Fill it up, Ron,” he said. He had a lot of drinking to do in order to repair the damage undone.

---(c) 2005 Cherie Renae - may not be reproduced without permission