He can't sleep. Not that insomnia is anything new. He passes many days eyes wide open, the sublimated impulses of sex and violence fueling his nervous hands as they press the remote, aimlessly flipping from channel to channel, never finding anything to watch, except Passions, of course, and that bloke Jerry Springer.

Sometimes his hands trace the cover of one of the old books he keeps hidden under his bed. He blows the dust away—a sacred ritual. The leather binding cracks open and momentarily he finds solace.

But today is different. Today he is not alone.

He watches her chest rise and fall, studying its rhythm. He considers his own unmoving chest. He draws a deep breath, trying to remember what it feels like to need oxygen, to be alive.

But it is useless. The unspent breath rushes from his lungs, a loud sigh.

She murmurs in her sleep and turns over, her back towards him.

Golden. The shade of burnished metal, rubbed to perfection. Her skin glistens still. Wonderingly, gently, he pulls a strand of her hair towards him. He rubs it between his fingers. It feels slightly brittle from hair dye. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Still sleeping, she draws her legs to her chest, her spine curving into a perfect C. A fetal, protective gesture. What is she protecting herself from?

He knows the answer. He turns away from her, a fragile shell, empty. One crack from her, and he'll break.

Her pulse quickens and she changes position again. Unexpectedly, she draws a large breath, almost gasping.

He doesn't move. His eyes press shut. He will be asleep. It will be easier.

The sheets rustle. She sits up.

He senses the air around her shifting, moving. The currents and eddies brush against his skin. These molecules have touched her, too. The hairs on his arm stand up in response.

He feels her watching him.

She slips from the bed and pads across the floor to where her clothing lies scattered in a hastily discarded heap. He hears the fastening of clasps, fabric sliding against skin, the buttoning of buttons. Each item of clothing a barrier, an obstacle to intimacy, to access.

Still, he presses his eyes shut.

There are no words, no gentle kisses across the forehead, no tender caresses. Tripping slightly over the edge of a rug, she makes her way to his door in the half-light. A brief hesitation. The door creaks on its hinges. A thin, concentrated sunbeam forms a stark barrier between the life outside and the death of the crypt.

The door closes with a sharp crack.

And the man breaks.

The End