Page 7 of Wishing Upon a Monster
“I didn’t notice,” Which wasn’t a lie, because I hadn’t looked.
“Hmmmm, well, if anyone could use some good dick,” she murmured, cackling as I made to pop her on her arm.
“Vickie!” I scolded the perpetual seventeen-year-old.
“What? I’m undead, not dead! He looks like he could hit multiple home runs with that bat he has hanging––”
I groaned, cutting her off, “Where is my husband now?”
“He’s outside waiting for you; Rocio is chatting his ears off,” she giggled before popping out of the mortal plane. At least, that’s what I thought happened when she disappeared like that.
“Little pervert,” I snickered. I felt a cold rush fall through my body, and I shuddered. She knew I hated it when she walked through me. “Okay, I take it back! You are demure and angelic!” I called, the warmth returning to my body before I exited.
I turned towards my truck, noting that a few yards away, my Brøndmand was still talking to Rocio. Once again, I was struck by the sheer size of him. Olan towered over Rocio. His obsidian arms crossed across his muscular chest while he listened to the statuesque goddess. Where dickface had been clenched tighter than a Danaid’s twat, Olan was relaxed. He looked like he was enjoying the conversation, not lording over her as if he held the answers to the universe. Olan even stooped a bit, so Rocio’s neck was not straining as they conversed.
I wondered if he would do that for me. I was a puny five foot five compared to her six and a half feet, and Olan made me look even shorter. I was relieved to see that, standing up, I was above batting height, and even more relieved to see that my groom had discovered pants. I walked slowly towards them, hoping to give them time to end their conversation if it were about me, because why wouldn’t it be?
“Thank you,” he said, his voice still scraping and harsh like a rusty trap.
I shivered, finding the timbre even more pleasant the more I heard him speak. I wondered if he sounded like that naturally, or if it was from disuse.
“You’re welcome. Ah, Rorie!” She clasped my shoulder in greeting, “I was just making some suggestions to Olan. I haven’t at any point slept as long as he, but I have isolated myself for decades at a time.”
“It sounds similar,” He agreed, uncrossing his arms. “I’ll speak to my wife about what you have said.”
He nodded his head to her in deference, then reached out and slid my purse off my shoulder.
“Oh, you don't have to carry my bag.” I reached for the brown circle bag.
“I wish to,” he said simply, shocking me.
Rocio smirked, “I’ll leave you both to it. Have a good evening, Rorie.”
I waved goodbye awkwardly before turning back to the inky monster god. My fluster sank in. I had no one to distract me, nothing to fiddle with now that my purse was gone, and even my hair was now too short to twist. I slipped my hands into my pockets, surveying the Brøndmand in front of me sheepishly.
“I like the pants,” I said, my lips curving in relief.
He pulled on the black linen-looking pants, a gold button flashing below his belly button as they slid down low on his hips, revealing his Adonis belt. He looked like a man, sort of, his limbs were where you would expect, but longer than they should be, his feet and hands strangely humanoid, but again stretched, his face as otherworldly as it was on my first inspection. His round red eyes trailed down my body as I surveyed his.
Vicki is right. I’m not dead, either, but for someone who has been asleep for hundreds of years, he’s very fit. Like a swimmer or a dancer. Do gods dance?
“Rocio suggested pants and showed me an image of a modern pair on her phone. Curious things, phones. I should like to have access to thisinternet.” He grinned, his sharp teeth reminding me that, as humanoid as he looked, he was not in any way to be mistaken for a ‘son of Adam.’
“That can be arranged, that is, if you are coming home with me?” I shifted, deciding that if I didn’t walk to my truck, we would never leave. “I have a pump house which leads to my well, or a guest room which would have better access to my internet?”
“Yes, I will dwell with you, wife. Wells are good for traveling, but not much else,” he said, and followed me to my cherry red Ford F150.
“Wells are for traveling? I thought you lived in your well?” I stopped just outside my truck bed; thankful I had removed the soil I had bought over the weekend to my shed. “It would be easier if you sat in the back as I drove us to my cottage. It’s not very far from here.”
Olan climbed into the bed of my truck, the vehicle dipping as he settled in, leaning against the back window, his knees drawn up so that he fit.
Seeing he was as comfortable as he could be, I opened my door and started up my truck, turning the rock music off so I could concentrate.
“Wells are for traveling?”I asked again, aiming my thoughts towards him as we pulled from the parking lot to the right.
“Wells are for traveling,min guldklump. I do not have to exist with form if I do not wish to. My kind use wells on Earth––portals—to visit many cultures to grant wishes. When we aren't traveling, we sometimes choose to just exist as consciousness. Someday, perhaps, you will wish to slumber with me, in the warmth of the Void.”He said that with such fondness, I wondered if the Void was like Brøndmand heaven.
“Not quite.”He replied. I swore I could hear his amusement in my mind, his voice still rusty. It was like he was whispering in my ear.
