Title: The Myth of the Never-Changing Vampire
He loves the myth of the never-changing vampire. It gives him comfort when he looks in the mirror and sees nothing, no widened face, no scarred limbs, no neatly trimmed haircut and perfectly shaved skin. In his mind he still looks like the young man turned in an alley, strong but not chiseled arms, hair loose in a ribbon, shirt pulled from his trousers, linen loose around his waist.
Itís a nice fantasy.
Then he looks over his lover and sees a thinness that makes them both uncomfortable. Years of fearing any food that didnít come from a butcherís block or poor orderly willing to look the other way for a fifty dollar bill. The toll shows through in his every touch, fingers so rarely warmed by blood, eyes grown strangely accustomed to the sun staring back at him in anticipation. Angel runs his fingers through course hair, meticulously plastered into a near-white shell, nothing like the locks wet from a rain drenched night hunt so many decades ago. The greeting is the same, hungry kiss, arched back, but the body is so different now that they both share in the laugh.
Everything changes but the demon within.