Page 125 of Aftertaste

“No.No.Oh, Stan.”

“Do I know you?” He wants to, very much. Wishes that he did.

She presses her lips together like it hurts. “What do you—how much do you have left?”

“Just…”—he shakes his head, not knowing how she knows—“just one last thing.”

She takes his face into her hands. They’re so warm he almost shuts his eyes.

“Don’t let it go,” she whispers. “Hold it tight. Stay with me. We—” Her voice is breaking. “We’re going to be okay. Please, just stay. I’ll figure it out. Get you back somehow. All of you. I love you, Konstantin. I love you like salt. And I’m going to fix this.”

Salt.

More than salt.

Morton’s. Himalayan.

Sweat. Blood. Capers. Roe.

Maura.

So much more than salt.

Something shakes loose inside of him. An instinct to feed her.

He only has one memory left, enough for a single ingredient. Somethingsalty—he was salty in it—all attitude. But with an undertone of regret, a dash of guilt. A longing for affection.

He recalls it—the kitchen, the refrigerator door, the way the cold air felt along his skin—lets it travel along his tongue—his father and that awful tie, the kids and all of their unkindness, his own fear and shame and loneliness—rolls it like a marble inside his mouth—the anger that exploded from his chest, his dad’s defeat, his own terrible regret—and feels it harden, rough and textured, crystalline, saline, its nooks and crannies and hand-harvested flakes seasoned to taste, flavored by this memory—the ache for attention, for connection, for love.

It’s a subtle salt. Delicate.

Fleur de sel.

And for one brief, brilliant moment, in the time it takes to taste, he remembers.

Understands.

Decides.

He knows he can’t return. His body is poisoned now; his memories gone. And even if he could, he’s needed here. For other souls who need release. Those many Hungry spirits that the Food Hall cannot feed. But he can. So he’ll stay. He’ll help.

And maybe one day, in return, he’ll get to see her again.

Because Maura can still live now.

Without Hunger. Without Everleigh. Without the constant draw of Death.

He can’t let her follow him, not when most of him is gone, will vanish again in a moment’s time. Not when he knows she isn’t done being alive. Isn’t done playing, and finding, and feasting.

All he wants now is to let her.

To send her back.

To love her enough to let her go.

THEFLEUR DE SELis melting in his mouth, vanishing fast, and he reaches for her—I’ve seen a lot of crazy things—presses his parted lips to hers—you’re extraordinary—kisses her with abandon—more than salt—tongues the taste, their aftertaste, his final memory, into her mouth—so much more than salt.

This—this salt, this kiss, this love—is the greatest thing that either of them has ever tasted, and in this moment, it reminds her. Takes her back. Hitches her to Life.

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