Married | Life With A Lamia

Once a month, she molts. It’s beautiful and horrifying. She leaves a perfect, ghostly, full-body scale-cast on the bedroom floor. I once tried to hang one in the living room as a conversation piece. She was not amused. But I will say that her fresh scales are the most stunning iridescent black you’ve ever seen. Also, vacuuming is now my primary hobby. Dyson deserves a medal.

Tail-shedding season. I have accepted my fate as a glorified heated blanket.

No burglar in their right mind is going to break into a house where a 20-foot serpent-woman is watching true crime documentaries at 2 AM. One time a raccoon got into the attic. She had it cornered in six seconds. The raccoon now has PTSD. Sera felt bad and named it “Kevin.” He lives under the porch now. She leaves him raw egg. Married Life With A Lamia

Normal couples fight about dishes. We fight about her leaving a “shed trail” across the clean carpet or the fact that my snoring vibrates the floor in a way that “sounds like a dying badger” (her words). She gets the silent treatment by retreating into a giant coil under the bed. I get the silent treatment by… walking to the kitchen, which she cannot follow because her tail gets stuck in the hallway. It’s a fair stalemate.

Humans spoon. Lamias constrict . Affectionately. When Sera wraps her lower half around me on the couch, it’s not a hug—it’s a full-body commitment. I’ve learned to fall asleep while my legs are pinned like a fossil in amber. On cold nights, it’s heaven. On summer nights? I have to negotiate a “tail release clause” so I can escape for ice water before I become a human popsicle. Once a month, she molts

Lying on her coil while she reads aloud, her human hand stroking my hair. Watching her catch morning light through the window, her scales shimmering like oil on water. The way she hisses when I tell a truly terrible pun—then laughs anyway.

Last week, she asked me to help her choose a new rattle for her tail tip. Like picking out a wedding ring, but more… percussive. We settled on polished obsidian. It clicks softly when she’s happy. I once tried to hang one in the

Teaching her to use a human toilet. (Spoiler: It’s not working. The bathtub is now a pond.) Would you like a part two from Seraphina’s perspective?

Here’s what no one tells you about marrying a lamia.