He hums his silent tune and I allows its music to soak into my skin, as if I can absorb it into my bones and become the most beautiful and deadly of sounds.

     "What is your name?" I whisper, breaking the symphony in the need to know what to call this strangely alluring monster.

     "Dexter," he tells me.

     "Like the serial killer on television?" I ask him.

     "I guess," he comments.

     "That's . . . comforting."

     He chuckles and I allow myself to appreciate this genre. "If it helps, my last name is Newton."

     "Like Isaac?"

     "The one and only."

     "That isn't reassuring at all," I insist. "It just proves that you could logically kill me."

      And he laughs again.