It was only when she came that he knew that he failed yet again. Anthea always climaxed in wind chimes, misty mountains and subtlety. Her lips would quiver lightly and a shy smile would escape them, as if she was ashamed of her pleasure. She would go red immediately after, remaining quiet until he would tell her how beautiful she was. Then she would tell him that his words cheapened the moment.
This one raked her nails across his back, let out a moan and pressed down harder, pushing him further in. She smiled through the sweat and Red noted that he at least got the smile right. He hadn’t reached his peak yet, but now all the lust had fled him. He pushed her off, got up and waddled across the room to where a desk awaited his return, his rapidly softening cock impeding his gait. There he began scribbling furiously, droplets exploding onto pages of graphs, formulas and barely comprehensible script. He wiped the moisture off, gave the girl on the bed one irritated scowl, as if it was her fault, pulled up a chair and dove into the calculations. She sat there, wrapped in a sheet, her left breast exposed, confused and looked at the back of the man who not fifteen minutes ago told her he loved her.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” her voice startled. He had already forgotten about her. Years, decades, or was it centuries? of engineering a deity had made him callous to the pains of his creations. He worshipped them, whispered the name they all bore, dissolved in their embraces, but only until the inevitable discovery of some miscalculation. After, they were nothing more than reminders of his inadequacies and it saddened him. Mostly. He used to simply deconstruct them where they were – sweating on the bed, dicing onions in the kitchen or curled up on the couch. Horned had put an end to that, with his biting ridicule and acute rationalization. Better be a murderer than a heartless creator, Horned had said. You’re still a human being, don’t forget that.
“Nothing. Nothing. You better take a shower,” Red threw over the shoulder, listened to the bare feet patting, a sound he had perfected a while ago – unmistakably Anthea’s, the barely audible whoosh of the bathroom door closing and pressed the little button under the lip of the desk.
The flames were silent, set to instant incineration, and left no trace, no ash, no molecules. She would have felt no pain, just a sudden rush of heat. He consoled himself in that – that his Antheas perished quickly. And, as always, their passing made him hungry. And in need of drink.