Fungal Halo

My tits ache, pressed against the hard wood of the pier I lie on. The irregular splash of salt water leaves my clothes just damp enough to unpleasantly stick to me.

Physical discomfort fades into the background. It’s high tide, and the thing kissing me grips my attention.

The low creaking sounds of wood and the lazy rocking motion tilting the doll’s head side-to-side in a slow, gentle rhythm made for soothing sensations.

At least they did so in a vacuum, and the doll was trying her very best to exist only in that perfect vacuum.

I haven’t seen the ocean in so long. I barely remember it any more. I barely remember myself.

I grew up there, you know? I miss having access to fresh seafood everywhere.

Out here, in the middle of the continent, it all tastes lifeless, somehow. Definitely missing something.