by Billy Higgins
Blood. Sweat. Exhaustion.
I hate when he sees me like this.
"You're home," he says. He always looks different through the eyeholes in my mask: less like a person, more like a shadow.
"It's 3 AM," I say.
"Why are you up?"
"I was watching you on the news. You were good." He's sitting on the couch, holding a steaming cup of coffee.
This feels wrong, him so casual, me in costume. I walk over to him, but black leather constricts my movement, making me go slower. My gloves and shoulders are spiked, suggesting I don't want to be touched.
Problem is, I do.