Mercy by Christian Davies 

I WATCHED the woman weeping and could only remember her first name, which was Mary. When I asked Bart what Mary’s last name was he could only remember that she liked to have her shoulders bit when he had her at the Rooster. Bart said she was the only woman he’d ever been with that wanted her shoulders bit. He said women liked to have other things bit but normally not their shoulders.
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Love does not make the world go ‘round. That’s silly, no. The weather does. Okay, wait, if we’re talking orbit, then yes, that is definitely love. To orbit around the sun requires massive amounts of energy. Love TAKES massive amounts of energy. Unrelated? Yes, probably. But the dictionary on my phone, that no longer receives service tells me that love is a “noun,” meaning “sexual activities (often including intercourse between two people.” And right under that: “noun - any object of warm affection or devotion”). Which is the one I’m interested in expounding, to you, only you.

Early that morning, our excitement was neutralized by an oppressive weight. My wife and I began loading the last remaining items we were too tired to load the night before into the moving truck. The move to Colorado was one of the biggest decisions we had ever made. Staying in Texas was not an option anymore. The lone star state had done its damage and left its scars. I, barely operable on any acceptable level had been paralyzed by fear from what seemed to be a presence that has long been a part of the Texas zeitgeist. It was not going to let me leave without a fight.