I reckon the man must have lost his way the night before and walked all day long, if he has appeared here now. I don’t know what the poor devil is doing in this scrap of the world and the desert has taught me to distrust: in the end, it all comes down to being prey or predator. I watch him stumble from my vantage point: the entrance to the cave that serves me as home. I observe his steps. He does not shuffle his feet, he swings his body as if avoiding its center of gravity. I guess the effect of the fabric chafing the skin and my mouth draws a smirk of satisfaction. «An easy prey,» I tell myself. I grab the ointment jar and mentally dust off the good Samaritan script. I rehearse my face of dismay with the gaze fixed on his hips, gloatingly: there’s still vigor in them. I caress Nacho’s smooth pelvis and remember him, splendid, flaunting on top of me, filled with gratitude, on the second night he spent at the cave. I snatch my warrior mask—his bone—and go out hunting into the thronging flare of the sunset.

Laila Hawk