Free Honeymoon of the Dead by Tate Hallaway

in that place, and that cute, narrow little pantry. I must have visited three times a week for walks around the lake and gossip sessions about the pagan community. Oh, I almost laughed out loud with memory of that time the Canada geese chased us! She was so kicky and fun to hang with.
    Of course, that all ended when she found out I was sleeping with her boyfriend.
    Then I became the one gossiped about, since that little misadventure of mine sent huge ripples among my friends, especially when it came out about that stupid love spell. Why do I never seem to learn how dumb-ass those things are?
    I shook my head. I’d lost a lot of friends over that little kerfuffle.
    Hey, look, Rudolph Valentino’s rib place survived! As the bus moved into downtown, I noted to Sebastian that he was now turning from Hennepin on to Hennepin. He just shook his head and muttered about drunken city planners.
    I didn’t even rise to the bait. My brain was still elsewhere. “How do you live with it all? All the memories. All the history,” I asked. We crossed over a light-rail line with a bump, and I had to ask, “It’s weird enough to see trains in this town for me. How was it to see trains, well, invented?”
    He laughed, and put his finger in his book to mark his place. “I don’t know that you ever really cope. It’s harder here in America. You people never sit still. Nothing ever stays the same.” He sounded reflective and a bit melancholy. Giving me a sad smile, he added, “But that has its upside too.”
    I thought about my ex-friend. I wouldn’t have remembered her if that neighborhood had changed more, and so I nodded my head. “I think I understand that part.”
    With a nod, he went back to his book, and I returned to staring out the window.
    It was only after we made the switch downtown to the Washington Avenue/University bus line that I noticed the new driver was a troll.
    Our fingers touched when he handed me the transfer ticket back, and suddenly I saw that the irises of his eyes were the color of stone as was, honestly, much of his skin. Bushy moss hung in place of brows, and his hair seemed to be an odd assortment of twigs and fern.
    I blinked, rubbed my eyes. The image wavered, but held. The vegetation-topped bus driver started to pull away from the curb, and Sebastian had already taken a seat in the middle. I stumbled my way to my seat.
    Holding on to the back of the metal handrail of the seat in front of me, I continued to stare at the bus driver. We moved along Washington Avenue, going under the pedestrian bridge connecting the two halves of the university’s campus, which was divided by the Mississippi.
    I noticed the troll looking back at me in the rearview mirror. I nudged Sebastian. Sebastian looked up from his book sleepily.
    “Does our bus driver look like a troll?” I asked him.
    The bus had stopped to let on two black women in heavy parkas and brightly decorated silk hijab . They chatted in a mix of English and Somali as they flowed past us in their snow boots and long, swirling skirts.
    As we started up again, Sebastian cocked his head thoughtfully and squinted, as though taking a long, serious look at the bus driver. “I suppose he does look like a troll a bit, particularly around the shoulders. He has a rather heavy forehead. For myself, I’d have to say more Cro-Magnon.”
    “Really? The moss hair doesn’t seem more trollish?”
    Sebastian glanced at me, and then slid his gaze to the driver. Returning his attention to me, he said, “I don’t really see moss, though it is thin in places and yet somehow wiry.” After a moment of consideration, it occurred to him: “This is like Fonn, isn’t it? You’re seeing something magical. You know, trolls and Frost Giants are from the same pantheon. He could be working with her. Should we get off?”
    I didn’t know. Even though the troll kept glancing surreptitiously in our general direction, he didn’t seem terribly threatening. All the same, I didn’t