When he caught her, he washed her feet in soda water. She didn’t put up much of a fight. Not because she wasn’t frightened, but because she had seen his face before. It was mundane. Lacking in distinctive features, and above all, as harmless as a crippled kitten lagging two steps behind the rest of the litter. He had a haircut like a ‘90s dad. Generic at best. Pathetic at worst. She remembers how her own dad looked at that time. Sure enough, his head of hair had been all kinds of awful. She knows people who still have that haircut. No doubt her dad would have it now if he didn’t happen to be brown bread. Death is such a disaster, be we’re all myopic here. Little changes. Mostly invisible. Some magical, but only for those with an eye for that which comes disguised as ordinary. There are cenotaphs. There are buildings that change while remaining the same. We’re nearer the dark ages than we think. Her soda-cleansed feet kick into his hands, hands that clench before releasing as he stands before the waves failing to understand why she will never be his. The oldest of wrecks so far down. Relics. Threads. Bottles floating in the ocean; bottles the same as the ones he uses to store his stuff. Witch doctors on one shoulder, black dogs on the other. It’s growing older the same as him. Grey hairs in their beards; sluggish limbs that crawl upon the stairs with aching bodies dreaming of a comfy chair to rest their weary heads–both only shadows of their former lives.