El Vampiro

I’m still working on this one, and am unsure where I want to take it, but thought it was fun to read, anyway.

I first saw the vampire next door when I went to water my Bellflowers last Thursday evening. I remember it had been a long day at work and I had gotten home a little later than usual. Sticky, my cat, had practically wrapped himself around my ankles in his desire to welcome me home and encourage me to put out his evening meal. A waxing gibbous moon was just rising above the horizon as I picked up my watering canteen.

I heard the vampire open the sliding glass door to his patio and step out. I pretended not to notice, that I was absorbed in my daily gardening tasks. But I could feel him as he walked to the edge of his patio and breathed in the evening air. I could hear the slight breeze play with his opened shirt, fluttering it just slightly toward the screen door.

I saw him again on Saturday. I was sitting on my patio, enjoying the last few bites of my turkey, bacon and avocado sandwich. I heard his patio door open and looked up. He stepped outside, looking like some Toltec warrior in khaki pants. He wore intense mirror shades that wrapped around his face, protecting his sensitive eyes, and his long hair was loosely tied in a pony tail just at the nape of his neck.

“Howdy new neighbor!” I raised my glass of orange-aid in a welcoming manner.

He turned toward me and smiled his bright white smile. “Hello.” His voice was deep and soft, like thick silk running over a river-smoothed stone. “Beautiful day, yes?”

“Indeed. Decided to take in some rays?” I asked, toying with him. He probably didn’t know that I knew what he was. Most people can’t tell.

“Just a few … need my vitamin D,” he said.

Yeah. That’s it. I thought. Flaunting his NewCoat protected undead skin is more like it.

“My name is Eztli,” he said. “Glad to meet you.”

I stood up and walked over to the rail that stood between our two patios. “I’m Sam.” We shook hands.

“Eztli. That’s Mexican, right?” I asked.

“Nahuatl, a Toltec name.” he said. “It means ‘blood’.”

“How cheery.” I said.

“Yeah. My mother had an overactive sense of drama. She hoped I would be some great warrior. I turned out to be an accountant.”

“Ah.” I had nothing to say to that. It was just so matter of fact.