At night they come prancing into the bedroom like they own the place. The static men have no concept of ownership or privacy. To them we’re some kind of prop-- the parquet floor beneath their dancing shoes.
Carl and I are holding hands beneath the covers, our bodies already rigid. Then the creatures get started, dancing above us with their static bodies, almost transparent, the edges of their forms nebulous. Only their smiles are real. Their big, white teeth shine down in wide grins. They wiggle their long static hands in our faces. Carl and I lie transfixed.