Mark M Bulmer

I first came to the Apollo Canyons with my husband, Numble, over thirty-seven years ago.

We drove a rented RV on our first trip, our first anniversary. It was fully equipped with a place to cook, a place to eat, a place to poop, and a place to sleep. The extendible and overhanging canopy always caught the bright rays of the sun just right and left us perfect light to enjoy breakfast, or lunch, or dinner.

The sex was incredible. We were at it all day, all night. I'd wake up and he'd be right in the middle of it. He'd wake up to me using him in naughty ways.

We used the place to cook, the place to eat, the place to poop, the place to sleep. We showed the entire animal kingdom stuff they should not have seen. Nobody should ever see some of them. We abused the shit out of the picnic table to the point I'm surprised it survived. I'm sure several trees in the area did not and I repeat my apology to the foxes carrying their cubs away from a collapsing den. I didn't see it.

We returned to the canyon the next time we were able to get two weeks off work. Then the next time. Then every time.

We both caught the Williamsburg flu at the same time and, thus, needed eleven days quarantine. We took them in the canyons.

We met our first in the third year.

He was younger than us, but not too young.

I was bent over, holding onto a tree with Numble behind me, when I saw him. Numble grabbed a handful of my hair, and we were staring into each other's eyes, me and the young man.

We stared for a long time. A very long time.

Then he looked ready to bolt, to run away.

I shook my head. I smiled. I mouthed the word "come", then I stared at him until he did as he was told.

"It's okay," I said when Numble gasped and tried to separate. "It's okay."

It was far beyond okay. It was unbelievable. It was incredible. It was days.

We'd tied him up at the end. Numble was fucking him, he was crying. I cut his throat at just the right moment.

It took a lot more firewood than I expected to burn the body and everything he brought with him.

Twenty-two more we've burned on the growing heap of ashes.

Men, women, we weren't particular. So long as they were into it.

When they were done, when they were used up, they became waste. Numble started using the word.

Waste.

There's a strange beauty to it.

I'd found his razor, the sharp blade covered by a plastic half-tube laser-etched with "The Protector". It was well hidden against the inside of the bedframe, held in place by a length of brown, paper tape.

I left it there, of course, though I blunted the shit out of the blade before returning The Protector.

I was on top, cumming, when I drove the screwdriver into his lung. Many would have gone with a Philips for the pointed tip, but I was a flat-head kind of girl.

He brought his razor up, but I grabbed his wrist and pushed it to the floor.

Then I stabbed him a few more times until he stopped fighting, stopped moving, stopped breathing.

Until he became waste.

We'd spoken, a couple of times, of the scattering of ashes and what we wanted.

Numble joined the pile.