Then she slipped off the table, silent as a shadow over gravel, and walked toward the creek. At the bank, she didn't stop. Her body leaned into the dark water and vanished without a ripple.
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 .
Tonight’s fantasy was Mako.
He touched the wet grass where she'd stood.
"No," he whispered. "I'm the park toucher. I only touch what wants to be felt."
He touched the back of her hand. She turned it over. Her palm was the soft part of a shark's belly, the only vulnerability they allow.