“The first time Jesus died to save humankind,” you told me. “The second time she will live and it will be the world that dies on the cross.”

You made me want to kill the world. You made me feel like god.

We sat on a low, stone wall passing a cigarette back and forth, watching the lights come on as the sky turned dark. The stone wall had been built on the only hill for miles and we sat gazing over the flat. The lights glittered below, insignificant and trashy.

“To take out a town, take out the electric grid first,” you said.

I turned away from the city below. Your profile against the night sky looked regal, Roman. I thought of Sekhmet, goddess of war.

“Or poison the water,” I said. “Take out half the population before they know what’s happening.”

Your eyes were so dark. I saw myself reflected there, trapped inside your perception of me. I had forgotten how to be anyone else.

“I love your mind,” you said, making me laugh. “Where would you get that much poison?”