A Fanged Divorce

Isadelphia heard the front door creak open, slowly, in a series of cautious jolts. She heard Algorithm slip inside and take off his boots. She listened as he tip-toed across the floor in his stocking feet. She let him get all the way to the basement stairs before she cleared her throat to let him know she was still up, waiting.

She switched on a lamp and stared, tapping her long fingernails on the edge of the settee. Algorithm sat sheepishly on the stone bench, exhausted from walking all night. He’d taken Isadelphia out for a rare dinner together, and they had feasted on a delicious Ph.D candidate in the field of postmodern anthropology who was too deferential to their customs to put up a fight when their fangs came out. But still, the night had devolved into petty squabbling, like it always did, and he had just left.

“Well,” Isadelphia said, turning her head so the lamp caught her perfect porcelain skin. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Out walking. And thinking. In fact, I’ve been doing quite a lot of thinking lately. Isadelphia… I want a divorce.”

“A divorce? Are you serious? How long have you been waiting to spring this on me?”

“Off and on for the last few decades.”

Isadelphia inhaled sharply. Algorithm ran a bony hand through his stylishly greasy hair.

“Look,” he said. “I was 21 when I said I wanted to be with you forever and ever and ever and ever. No one should be held to decisions they make when they’re 21. That’s insane.”

“Algorithm, you’re still 21.”

“But emotionally, I’m so much older now.”

“Oh, really now? You’d already been 21 for 200 years before you met me. You mean to tell me there was no emotional growth in that whole period?”

“Those were my bad boy years! You know that. I hardly remember that eon at all — until the day I met you, of course.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I mean it. Isadelphia, you saved me. From myself. And from that psychotic priest dude with the vat of holy water. I will always be grateful to you. I just think it’s time to move on.”

“You know, it’s not like you’ve exactly been a dream partner, Algorithm. I was actually 21 when I agreed to be bitten on the neck by you, thus gaining somewhat arbitrary immortality that manifests in kind of a fetishy way. You think a college junior is qualified to make a choice like that? I was a printmaking major for god’s sake. That should have given you some clue as to my life-planning skills.”

“Right, but we discussed the whole thing before I did any biting. Plus, love isn’t about spreadsheets… or abacuses… or the direction of the stars. Well maybe that last one a little. But mostly it’s about a feeling. And I did feel love for you, Isa. As soon as I laid eyes on your sweet face. You were wearing that simple white frock, hands stained with printmaking… stuff. You were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.”

“Save it, Algorithm. Your charm faded sometime around the Dust Bowl.”

Algorithm sighed, seemingly lost in thought. Then he looked up, an undeniable glint in his eye.

“Remember the Dust Bowl? The day there was so much soot in the air we had to crawl into a single coffin and seal it up from the inside?”

Isadelphia tilted her head to meet his gaze, finding herself unable to keep from smiling.

“We barely fit, even with our mutual 24-inch waists pressed so tightly together. That might have been the best day of sleep I’ve ever had.”

“You know, I wouldn’t mind trying that again. Maybe… tomorrow? We could use the extra coffin we bought a couple decades ago in case we ever had houseguests.”

Isadelphia bit her lip.

“I suppose we could give all this another shot. But Algo, if we do, there are some things that are going to have to change.”

“Anything, my love,” he said. “Er, but like, what, specifically?”

“Okay, well, I hate to have to do this, but I’ve been keeping a tally for the last 25 years. And in that time, you’ve left the toilet seat up 3,462 times.”

Algorithm jumped up, throwing his hands in the air. “Wow. What a violation. I can’t believe you’d spy on me like that. Also, there’s no way that was even me. I’m a vampire, I don’t pee.”

“Exactly. Which means you’ve been doing it just to fuck with me.”

“Or maybe someone else has been using our toilet. Someone like… Jimmy from the saloon.”

“Oh my god! It was one kiss and I was drunk on virgin blood. You’ve been holding that against me for a goddamn century. And you know I didn’t even enjoy it. He had garlic breath. I nearly ended up in the hospital.”

“Well, I guess I’ve just never able to trust you completely after that.”

“Okay, fine. You win. Let’s end this union. How would you like to divide our assets?

“Well, obviously we should each take our own coffin. And I say that whoever gets the hearse, the other should get the 18th-century velvet cape.”

“What about the leather jackets? The unisex ones from the mid-80s, I mean.”

“You take those, I’ll take the Ray-Bans?”

“Deal.”

Isadelphia reached out her hand to shake.

“Wait,” she said suddenly. “What about the redheaded boy we’ve been keeping in the attic for snacks?”

Algorithm thought for a moment and then he smiled his fangiest smile.

“You take him, pet. It’s the least I can do.”

Liana Maeby is the author of South on Highland.