The Anatomy of An Aguamala

I was suddenly sheepishly aware of the spider-scrawled revelations across my chest; a hundred sticky silk words spun in the dead of night and fastened by the finest whispers of aurulent-pink thread to my dress. Barely visible in the white columbed dance hall they were now strikingly out of place, illuminated by a single sickly lightbulb dangled precociously above our heads. Once flush with the bodice’s forgiving fabric, my goosebumps rose to attention and brought depth to the secret words; carving chasms beneath the soft “c” whispers and turning threaded “m”s to mountains.

He brushed past me, slender limbs lingering around my hips as he pulled a stepping ladder from the shelf behind me.

(Dinner calls, I’ll finish this in a minute…)