Owen Minor was at work—at his day job—when he felt the tremor build inside of him. It always began as a flutter in his chest, as if his beloved flies were somehow able to crawl over his beating heart. But then the feeling spread outward. Down to his stomach and loins. Up through his throat to his mouth, which began to water, and his eyes, making them wet.
He slipped into a bathroom and locked himself in a stall, then stood with his arms wide, palms braced against the cool metal walls, legs straddling the toilet. There, in safety and quiet, he let the visions come.
The woman from the tattoo shop was feeling it.
She was feeling it so goddamn much.
He was panting now, gulping deep breaths as the memories of Tuyet filled his hungry mouth and wrapped around his tongue and dripped down his gullet to his stomach.
“Tuyet…” he murmured. Drool hung from his rubbery lips and dripped onto his shirt.