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Costi­gan ordered another round. The girl leaned into the bar. Mag­nus lis­tened to her ask ques­tions about their work. She was young and pretty, relaxed with the two men. Costi­gan began to touch her, a palm against the back or a fin­ger at her wrist, in a gen­tle sequence that Mag­nus had wit­nessed before. The girl unbut­toned her shirt to show them the elab­o­rate ser­pent that wound around her arm.

“You must have had a bad day,” she said. She directed the state­ment to Magnus.

“We had a day that we dis­agreed about,” he said. “But that will pass.”

“You two work together?” she asked.

“I work for him,” Costi­gan said. “But he works for some­one else, so that doesn’t really matter.”

The girl’s breast pushed against Costigan’s chest as she leaned across the bar. Her hair fell over her face. She giggled.

“You are imper­ti­nent, young lady,” Mag­nus said.

“You are a meanie,” the girl laughed.

She stuck her tongue out. The slen­der, moist pink stretch of flesh lin­gered for a moment against her chin, the point as alive as the ser­pent that wound around her arm. In the cen­ter of her tongue was a sil­ver steel ball. She pre­sented it as if for inspection.

You can read the story below.

Mag­nus’ Day: A Story

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