The morning sun kissed my skin, a gentle caress competing with the cool breeze, a welcome relief after a night immersed in ancient texts. Zombism. Like vampirism, I was convinced it was a virus.

Peter, my lover and fellow doctor, had given me an inoculation, a low dose of the vampire virus. It was a sly, naughty act, but it granted immunity.

“You never came to bed last night,” Peter’s soft, sexy voice drifted from the patio, pulling me from my thoughts. He set up a camp chair beside me, his gaze questioning.

“Time got away from me,” I admitted, basking in Mother Nature’s embrace. We talked of Africa, of cures, of the priorities we both held. His non-profit, his return to a land I knew little about, his quest for a vampire cure. My focus, stubbornly, remained on zombism.

I kissed his forehead, heading into the house, breakfast on my mind. Then I saw it. His luggage, neatly by the front door. My heart slammed against my ribs. He was leaving. Today.

“There’s a cab on its way,” he said, his voice dejected.

“You’re leaving already?” The words were a gasp. He pulled me into his arms, a desperate kiss, full of promises of return. "I can't imagine life without you in it, my love. You are my heartbeat, my breath, my very essence."

We made love, a feverish, desperate act of farewell. The cab's honk shattered the moment, a cruel reminder of the impending separation. I watched through tear-filled eyes as he rushed out, carrying my heart with him.