He was a naturalist at heart. I thought, at the time, this meant he was a nudist. I had many visions of him creeping across his yard, his sun-kissed skin gleaming of sweat, his balls hanging freely in the hair, his penis a humbling image. He lived at the foot of the Green Mountains in Vermont. That he was a nudist wouldn’t have been surprising. He had a garden that he kept during the summers, tilling the soil in May, spreading mulch come June. He fed me persimmons when I visited. I told him the ghost of my mother had come to me again. He said he didn’t believe in ghosts. Genies, witches, demons. I’m a naturalist, he said. If it doesn’t fall under science, I don’t believe it. I tried explaining that it was real, she had been visiting me.
She appeared at the end of my bed, her skin a film of white. Her hair was matted into thick strands. Black marbles for eyes. But she carried the scent of before: a burst of citron and lavender. This was how I knew it was her for certain. That and she looked like my mother, despite all the decay. Let’s say I believe you, he said. Does she say anything? I shook my head. She just growls. Like a dog.
At night, he slipped out of his clothes, leaving them spoiled and strewn across the floor. He smelled of damp soil; I found it calming. He led me into his bedroom. The mattress creaked. A sharp, unholy sound. The windows trembled, fierce winds lashing the small clapboard house. He kissed me tenderly at first. Later, he bit my lip, a small pearl of blood sprouting to the surface. He eased himself into me, a burn that shot up my spine. His fingers were laced through mine. I saw his nails, how they brimmed with dirt. I told him I loved him. I couldn’t, at that moment, remember his name. I thought only of his username on the app in which we met: GRNMTN. At some point, between GRNMTN’s thrusting and my declarations, I heard a growl. It was a familiar sound. I didn’t mind it, paid no attention. I focused on his face, the creases, the flecks of hair, the sun spots. When my mother growled again, he stopped, he turned, he screamed.
GRNMTN bolted out of the house. Naked, he tore through tall grasses. I drew the covers towards my chin, pressing my back against the headboard. My mother watched. Seconds passed. I reached out, leaving my palm open.
Joshua Vigil lives in New York. His writing has appeared in Chicago Review of Books, Neutral Spaces Magazine, Rejection Letters, and elsewhere.