It’s late fall in the Midwest. She knows about the disease, about the cancer that’s slowly eating away at my insides. collected. I order a whiskey, and he nods, reaching for a bottle of amber liquid on the top shelf. “Thanks,” I mutter, making my way through the crowd towards the exit. No senior citizen discount today. I’d have to sell my soul to the devil?” I ask. Not only that, you have a thing for Angela, I can tell.”
I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest as I try to process her words. “New girl,” he says, his voice low. The waitress smiles again, seemingly unfazed by my lack of response. I watch, mesmerized, as she begins to sway to the music, her hips undulating in a slow, sensual motion. “But I can’t,” she says. Only the male of our kind, an incubus, can make a succubus. The air in the room seems to grow heavier, the silence between us thickening like a palpable mist.