EXPOSURE
- Jun 26
- 1 min read
By Veronica Meredith
Sam doesn't wear PPE in the lab. No gloves, no goggles, no mask: much to Anthony's distress.
Canisters hold vanilla protein powder, birthday-cake- and orchid-scented, deceptively sweet, truly artificial. Swallowed, it promotes growth. On skin, though? Living tissue liquefies, turns people to molten sludge.
Anthony saw it happen, once. A sprinkling on an exposed inch of wrist claimed a lab tech's hand. The rot smelled sweeter than he expected.
"Work out the kinks," corporate says.
Anthony reminds, pleads, threatens. Sam stays bare-faced and bare-handed in shoes for show, not safety, and coats worth double Anthony's rent. He doesn't see it's peacocking—not until Sam rips off his mask after work to kiss him.
Anthony doesn't drink unless it's the most virginal of cocktails, so they get ice cream instead. He selects vanilla: classic, he hopes, and not too safe, too boring.
After a few weeks of—dating?—is it dating? Are they in love? Anthony doesn't know and that scares him—the inevitable happens. Sam reaches for Anthony's hand, uncaring that it's gloved, whereas his is bare. A jar tips. White arcs through the air—flour, sugar, snow—and settles on Sam's bare hand.
His smile freezes. Flesh blooms in petals before it begins to wilt. Melt.
Anthony doesn’t shove him towards the shower. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t call. He rips off his gloves, plunges both arms into the nearest canister, choosing recklessness, choosing him.
They hold hands while they still have them.