A Tall Glass of Water
By Xochilt Avila
The Roland Apartments had rules: no pets, no smoking, and no bothering Randall. By his third week, Tommy learned that most rules were ignored, but nobody fucked with Randall.
Why would they? It was Baltimore; folks minded their business. He was quiet and polite. Lucille hadn’t tried selling the apartment, so he was probably still paying rent.
Who cared if he was a ghost? Tommy, the lonely Midwest transplant that he was, sure didn’t.
“You know, most folks are kind to me, but I ain’t had a guest in a long while.”
Randall sat the wine on a coffee table the color of split pea. The apartment was kitschy, vintage in a way that suggested how long long had been. Yet it smelled fresh as sea salt. Tommy sipped his drink from his spot on the couch. But he craved something stronger; the tall glass of water that had welcomed him into the apartment.
“What was your last guest like?”
“A client.” Randall sat and gestured toward mannequins Tommy found far more frightening than the gorgeous spirit.
“Normally folks just send their measurements, and I mail the ensembles. But he was particular about how his clothes fit. Wanted it snug.”
The lightness that had carried Randall’s words tightened like a leash. A fire kindled in Tommy’s belly as he polished off his drink.
“You sound dedicated to your craft.”
“It’s an after-living. Something to do when you never sleep. And I can’t change out of what I died in, so…” Randall shrugged, gesturing down at his handsome suit.
“I understand if it’s rude to ask…”
“Drowned,” he answered before Tommy could finish, chuckling as the younger man turned pink. “Catering a yacht for some dumb, rich fucks who stayed dead, as far as I’m aware. Don’t know why I made it out, but I ain’t gonna complain.”
Randall seemed content to be as he was, in his apartment, with Tommy on his couch. Contentment that urged the younger man closer. Up close, he could smell the kiss of the sea; echos of the Chesapeake from another time. Tommy traced fingertips along a strong jawline. Salt flaked from Randall’s skin, and Tommy brought it to his tongue with a groan.
“Maybe you just had more living to do.”
The spirit smiled and leaned into the touch. “Perhaps you wanna help me?” An arm shifted around the living man; cold and damp, stronger than imagined. But Randall’s eyes searched for uncertainty. “It won’t be what you’re used to...”
“You’re dead. I’d sure hope not.”
Laughter pulsed against Tommy’s lips as Randall kissed him, sweetly at first, then earnest, then fiercely. He tasted of brine and minerals, of sweet crab and hors d'oeuvres swiped from silver trays. And then, suddenly, wetness; rushing, gushing past wanting lips and slender throat. Water. Water. Cold as Eastern winter, it soothed the heat in Tommy’s belly. It filled his stomach, swelled his lungs, and grounded him like a weighted blanket.
Drinking. Drinking. Tommy drank him all.
Xochilt Avila (they/them) is an indie horror author based on the US Eastern Coast. Their work has been featured by Ghoulish Tales, Cursed Morsels,Tenebrous Press, and more. When not writing they can be found smooching their cats and planning their next meal. They are active on BluSky @xavilawrites.bsky.social, and you can find a full list of their publications at https://xochiltavila.carrd.co/
