SkyHunter

Let me get one thing out of the way right now.


I do not have a latex fetish.


Or a rubber fetish, or a vinyl fetish. Nothing like that. I had a girl ask me that the other day. I was working, bagging groceries at this little store on Beacon. She noticed my yellow-white gloves and she asked me did I have a fetish for latex. I blinked, and told her no, I didn’t, it was because of a condition. She told me that it was okay if I called it a condition, that other people liked it too and that it was a normal part of being human. She then told me that she was more of a bondage person.


Her mother’s face ran scarlet.


There were days when twelve year olds didn’t have a clue about the arcane corners of humanity. Oh, the wonders of the Internet.


But all jokes aside, I don’t. Most of you will read something into this. Don’t. It is a kind of protection from the world around me. And I mean that in the most literal sense. There are things I don’t want to touch, things I don’t want to see. Not that it particularly matters. Chances are, I’ve already seen it. But just because you had seen something awful, would you revisit it every chance you got?


Don’t answer that.


It wasn’t always latex. I tried out a pair of leather work gloves when all this started. That was cool until I started getting the feeling of flies on my back and re-chewed grass in my mouth. Then whatever those gloves were made of was taken for slaughter.


No more leather for me.


Plastic just wasn’t substantial enough. It tore easily, and the material was thin enough that I could still touch things and see their Past. It was about this time that I tried latex. It was perfect. Flexible, allowed me to go about my life almost unencumbered, and prevented the Past from seeping into my skull uninvited.


That was before she died. Before the woman of my dreams was gunned down. The gunman, apparently, wore latex gloves too. I can barely see his face when I touch the gun the police recovered. I see flashes, a long nose and curly black hair stuffed under a baseball cap.  He had looked down the barrel smugly after he had done it, like he had just slam dunked on an NBA player. I stand in the evidence room, clutching the gun in my hand, trying to wring out every drop of the Past the gun has to offer. Its serial number has been filed off. Never has been registered anyway, according to records. No prints anywhere.


The velvet box in my right pocket weighs on my mind like a brick.


Memories have a strength. Like a smell or the temperature of a car engine, they can tell how recently something’s been used. These can be followed, if the memories are strong enough or recent enough. Not exactly like a trail, but something resembling it...like, like arrows pointing in a direction in which you're likely to find the next thing the person touched.


The pistol in my hand has been used precisely once. On her. Before that, it had belonged--no, that’s a strong word, implying ownership...it was in the possession of some Mexican gun runner in town. Now, his face I could see. He will be my next stop.


He sold a gun that killed my fiancee. I will hunt him down. I will find out who he sold the gun to. After that?....I make no promises. Thanks to some experimenting with the Past of my neighbor’s war memorabilia, I have seen things that still give me nightmares. I think this is called post-traumatic stress disorder. I Googled the symptoms. I match up. I know things to do with the gun runner that I can’t mention in print.

So when I say the gloves are coming off, it isn’t just an expression.