By Sharyl Heber

Niagara. Trite, but it means something to him. Tourists that surround us on the platform keep their distance.
“How long I’ve waited to stand here with you,” he says. The roar of the Falls overpowers his voice. I can feel the unnatural heat of his breath on my neck. He reaches for my hand to find his lavish diamond on my finger. Turning it, he croons an eerie bar of ‘Twilight Time’ and presses himself closer.  
“An exemplary custom,” he says, enamored with this locale. “Champagne tonight. I’ve ordered candles for the room,” he scans my expression for approval. “Isn’t it perfect?”
He’s hit the classic marks, but I give him no assurance. The mist is blissfully cool on this humid day. The force of the Falls, unfathomable. I lean over the railing in search of visceral passion.
“Careful, my precious one,” he holds me tight.
I want to soar…over the certain death that churns below, away to Canada and an uncharted expanse of the Rockies.
“Let’s return to the room. I’ve procured an evening gown for you. You’ll dazzle. . .” He must sense I’m drifting. He puts a grip on my arm.
“No,” I pull away. “We stay.”
This doesn’t sit well with him. The smile fades from his lips, a red electrical current pulsates over his brow. The crowd takes notice of the warning and back-steps gingerly from the deck. No courage in the throng today. I hug the railing and face the raging water with him alone. Ascension, please. Skim the Alaskan glaciers and on, to the wilds of Russia. From there, I don’t care.
“We will go. Now,” he commands.
“It’s not the way it’s done!” My audacity surprises him. He relents, suspicious though, for his research is impeccable.
“My apologies,” he bows and stands at attention. “Please instruct me.”
“First, a customary Hail. We spread our arms like this…” I demonstrate my finest soaring eagle for him. He hesitates.
“It is tradition,” I assure him. He follows my example.
“Then we climb high on the railing.” Again he stalls, but mimics my moves, his arms spread wide. We both teeter, precarious in the wind.
“Before we spend our first night in bliss, we challenge the falls with this quote— close your eyes,” I tell him, and he does.
I deliver the words with authority. “May the power of our love be mightier than the Falls of Niagara!” I shout into the spray. He repeats the call, now smug with a certainty that he follows a time-honored ritual.
“See? How does it feel?” I sidestep on the rail and snuggle into him.
“We are a match made in the heavens,” he laughs at his little joke and grins with satisfaction, exposing a double row of yellow-stained, razor-pointed teeth.
I grab him by his blue-scaled neck and pull him in.
“Your interstellar breeding mandate… I’m not a fan!” I move my leg beneath his shin, dislodging his cloven foot from the railing.
“What’re you doing?” The decibel of his shriek is piercing. He huffs air through his gills. His claws flail as he gropes for his communicator. I snatch it first and toss it into the torrent.
I put my lips to his tympanic earflap and give him a seductive whisper. “Your galactic fascist regime will rot in its own enmity, my love.” Then, a swift, upward shove with my knee.
“It’s tradition.”

Sharyl Heber is a novelist, screenwriter, poet and a member of the SLO NightWriters Board of Directors. She has served as the Director of the SLO NightWriters Golden Quill writing competition and as judge for the SLO Coastal School District student writing competition. She has won awards of her own for prose and poetry. One of her screenplays, Keepers of the Dream, rose to upper levels in Miramax’s first Project Greenlight.