As the Moon Climbs

I wondered how old he was when I killed him. A century? Two? Ten? He looked to be almost fifty until I wiped off layers of makeup, revealing the face of a man in his early thirties at most. No matter. The bowl was mine, now.

It was about five inches in diameter, an inch or two deep, and apparently made of platinum. Stories would have you think that only the pure and saintly can possess it; luckily for me, that claim seemed to be exaggerated.

But how I was supposed to use it? Fill it with water and drink, presumably, but how much water? How often? Did it have to be a special kind of water, or some other liquid? I had spent so much time figuring out the logistics of eternal life that I hadn’t considered whether there might be technical specifics as well. Only one way to find out.

I entered the man’s kitchen and held the bowl under the faucet, letting it fill with tap water. I raised it to my lips and drank. I felt the same, but maybe it took time to work.

And now, of course, I had all the time in the world.

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