He touched the wet grass where she'd stood.
Tonight’s fantasy was Mako.
Not the shark, exactly. But the idea of the shark: the bullet-taper of its snout, the lunatic speed, the skin that felt like sandpaper one way and wet silk the other. Mako was a woman he’d seen once, diving a rusted rail bridge. She moved through the green water like a blade. She didn't swim; she cut .
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