11:50 PM. Sunset Boulevard, the ultimate mindfuck.

The clock still tick, tick ticking away. It is the one thing I can count on. Its pulse is steady now…not too fast, not too slow…but it will quicken at any moment. I will wait with confidence. Its pulse will quicken soon enough.

I walk.

The city has a hard rain tonight, but in this neighborhood the streets still smell of urine. Acidity can’t wash away raw filth. Ah, tired and feet hurting in shoes half a size too small with steel toes to add to the pain.

Walking the streets during the day to find memories in hidden corners of the city is difficult enough. A person is too visible, too aware of what other people are doing. Noise. Cell phones ringing, talking, singing. Cars, workers, the masses—too busy to complete a full hello, rather a “hey” or quick nod is given. Ambling across the street you’re aware of your every step. And why shouldn’t you be? Stopped cars with eyes behind the glass staring, judging, possibly molesting you in a mental fantasy if you are lucky enough to be considered worthwhile.

But at night…at night…nostalgia seeps through the gutters and creeps up on you like a tendril of smoke. It flits about first in silhouette, rapid images that recall slices of emotion, bare and unforgiving. And then the shades materialize into distinct color, standing harsh and apparent in the glare of white lights that line the street. Here stand our memories, begging us to acknowledge them, make sense of them, let them live through us once again. But the streets of L.A. have their angels, and a cloak is given to those who need one. I need one. Certain memories are best left in dark alleys, shadowed by inner fears.  Nobody asks, nobody tells, nobody hurts—for now….

I walk.

Six miles is a long, no…a very long walk in this city. Being forty-six only adds to the discomfort.

Observe, observe, stop thinking! Don’t look down, down is where the mind is. Keep looking up. Make eye contact.

The women give me a half-smile, curious, timid, complex.

The men hand out an all over look, an invitation for a feast. A dinner I do not want on my plate.

I walk.

Snippets of conversation add contour to the concrete sidewalks of the boulevard. A buffet of the senses, do I go back for seconds? Do I want more of the sexual repartee between the man and woman on the corner, or would I rather dip into the heated exchange between the two old men in front of the liquor store? A dollop of wasabi might do me good.

Energy. Purples and oranges and browns. I know this place. Yes. An obscure bar, made notorious by the famous musician who hanged himself in one of the bathroom stalls; so famous I cannot remember his name. Smokers milling about outside, that typical Californian breed who inhale cigarettes while drinking their daily two-ounce shot of wheatgrass. Simple people—workers, living day by day on weekly paychecks that barely keep one in food and rent.

I stand.

The feel of burning liquid down my throat, traveling through the electrical current, reaching my feet, padding my mind, comforting my soles—that is my desire.

I wait. My toes strum the pavement.

A girl. Tall, slender, angular in her slightness. How I wish she were sinuous and fresh. Red dress, clingy and bareback.  I see ribs, thin skin, veins pulsing. Face pale, cheekbones erect, a creature of the night no doubt. She walks towards me, her eyes never stray. The gypsy comes to a halt and looks me over.

A low but enticing hello echoes from open red lips. Always a fool for the ladies, a plain, but thankful hello is bounced back.

“What’s going on in there?” she murmurs.

“No idea.”

“You goin’ in?”

“No.”

A smile. Knowledge. Torment.

“I gotta get home, ” I crack.

“No you don’t, Floyd.”

Every day, hour, second of my past, the past I have so vainly tried to correct, devours me like a million locusts, hungry for my soul. I am submissive.

“Yes,” I agree.

So tired. Too tired from my walk. From that first step into what was once my life. So many times I have wished that for one day, just one complete day, I would belong to no one. Not my parents, or my work. My friends, or my god. No one. And now, this girl, this gypsy, this bagwhore, has the power to grant my beloved wish. Sweetness like a lullaby envelops me. The ticking of the clock grows louder.

She waves her hand over her body like a magician. The wand she holds is long and sleek and black, full of magic tricks and promises, but there is something different. I cannot quite make it out; she blurs my vision with her enchanting motions. There is a nozzle, a head, a black hole.

“Floyd,” she sings.  “My Floyd…”

Terrifying, seductive.

A noise. A large clap rings out. My ears throb, my chest explodes.

I lay. Hunched on the ground, my knees are my anchors.

Where is my gypsy?

“Where is my gypsy!” I shout.

Gone.

A screech. I look. Focus.  Focus!

A car I now recognize as a bad moment from my past roars off.

People are surrounding me. Claustrophobia is setting in.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick goes the quickening pulse of the clock.

1736 Kelton Avenue is not on any registry of haunted places. There are no neighborhood stories of ghastly murders, and it has never been featured on “Ghost Hunters.” It is a standard apartment building, rectangular, cream-colored, 150 units with balcony, elevator, and underground parking. Looking up at the complex, I saw nothing sinister about the place—only my first official home-away-from-home.

I remember a cloud passed over the sun, and I shivered as I bounded up the entrance stairs, through the front doors paned in frosted glass, and into the elevator. The floors ticked by in a dull red shade and the elevator doors opened. The sour smell of trapped air followed me down the long hallway. I unlocked the door to apartment 323 and the sounds of a football game and the stench of overcooked hot dogs torpedoed my senses.“Sara! Queen of the lair!”

Sam pinched my bottom on his way to the recliner. “What took you so long, Blondie?”

Before I could retaliate, Joe seized me up and squeezed me fiercely. “You should be a cheerleader, they could toss you to the moon,” he said, chucking me onto the candy-wrapped sofa.

Being tossed about and fondled inappropriately by my two male besties was expected and not terribly annoying—lines had been drawn and parameters set, however loosely. But one quick sweep and I was convinced living with Sam and Joe was not the most sanitary of decisions. They had only moved in the week before and already a pile of dirty dishes and several large flies held the kitchen hostage. I wondered if perhaps there was still a room available in the dorms.

“This place is disgusting.”

Sam handed me a half-eaten hot dog. “Go ahead and do your thing.”

“I’m not cleaning up after you slobs.” I had already grabbed a trash bag and was collecting empty beer bottles.

“No, leave those. We’re gambling. If you can spit your toenail into one of the bottles, Joe pays up. Five bucks per nail. Want in?” Sam asked.

I figured I had two options. I could coerce with feminine charm, or I could beat them at their own game. Literally.

“If I can spit my toenail into one of those bottles, you have to help me clean,” I bargained. “On a regular basis.”

Sam stared blankly, as though caught on the word “clean.”

“Okay. But you can’t use clippers. You have to bite off a piece of your toenail for it to count,” Joe said.

“Deal only if you help me bring up my boxes.”

Joe laughed. “Dude, you’ll never make it.”

I was raised with two brothers. Biting my toenails was cake. And the expression on Joe’s face when I sent the nail flying into the bottle was worth ruining my pedicure.

“I told you this was a stupid game, man,” Sam said, giving Joe a smack on the head.

By the time the sun had cast a rusty sheen over the Formica tiles of the kitchen, my new apartment was the poster child for a Mr. Clean ad and my belongings were waiting in neatly stacked boxes in my bedroom. Standing on my private balcony, relishing my Juliet moment, the energy of twilight brushed against my psyche. I decided to abandon the night of unpacking I had planned. Wrapping myself in my faux fur jacket, I strode out of my haven, but not before noticing the chill just outside my bedroom door.

δ

“I got one,” Alicia, a pretty brunette said. Sprawled beneath the black Los Angeles sky, upon the manicured lawns of the football field, four college students gossiped. “I was fourteen years old, and we had recently moved into this old house my parents were refurbishing. They did that. Bought houses, fixed them up, and then sold them. I never actually had a real home.”

“Is this a sob story or a ghost story?” Sam asked.

“Well strange things started to happen. Doors opening and closing by themselves.”

“Lights turning on and off?” I guessed, knowing the story’s direction.

“Yes, exactly! And then one Monday morning before school, I was fixing my makeup, and all of a sudden in the mirror, I see this woman, with long dark hair and sad eyes, standing right behind me. I screamed bloody murder and ran out of the bathroom, butt naked, into a hallway full of construction workers.”

“Did your parents believe you saw a ghost?” Joe asked, wide-eyed. (I’m guessing at the visual of Alicia naked, rather than the image of the ghost.)

“They believed I saw something. I’ve never been the type to flash my privates willingly.”

“That’s a shame,” said Sam.

I sighed and stretched my legs in front of me. The classic ghost story. Everybody has a version. Same legend, different players. Discouraged, I lay down in the damp grass and turned my eyes to the sky, looking for a shooting star. But in the City of Angels, the sky is blank, and no matter how hard I tried to affix my dreams on the empty canvas, it remained bare. The red light of a plane held my attention. Flying east. For a moment, I ached to be on it, heading east, heading home.

“Hey, Alicia. Betcha ten bucks Sara has a better ghost story,” said Joe.

“Stop trying to gamble with my date, Joe,” Sam warned.

“Betcha I have a bigger dick than Sam.”

“Yeah, whatever dude. You piss sitting down.”

“Sara, save me,” Alicia said. “What’s your ghost story?”

“You should’ve bet Joe. I don’t have one.”

“Damn. I need to go to Vegas for a tune-up,” Joe sighed.

“Ah, you’ve never seen a ghost,” said Alicia.

“And I never will,” I said.

“You don’t believe in them?”

“Of course I do. Just because I don’t see them, doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Ghosts are like atoms. I know they’re there, all around, hiding…invisible…working their magic.”

“How do you know you won’t see one some day?”

I pulled my jacket tighter around my neck. “Because I don’t want to.”

“My turn then,” Joe said, saving me from further nosiness. “When I was ten, my parents sent me to this farm camp. I had to learn how to milk cows and feed chickens and shit…”

Turning onto my side, I closed my eyes, shutting out Joe’s prattle. I smiled at a memory of two gangly boys. When I was a little girl, my older brothers would taunt me with stories of ghosts: frightening specters with red eyes and long robes, bony fingers and misty outlines. Proudly, I never took the bait, never melted into girlish wails or cowered underneath the hem of my mother’s skirt. I was not so foolish as to declaim that there was no such thing as ghosts. On the contrary, I believed wholeheartedly in these ghouls. But I was a practical, down-to-earth sort of five-year-old who swore that a ghost would never haunt her because she didn’t want to see one. “In order to see a ghost, you have to be open to seeing them,” I would patiently explain to my brothers. “And why should I be afraid of something I can’t see!” And they would always reply, with their most serious teenage expressions, “Ah, but you should be…you should be…”

δ

I was glad to be returning to my new home. The evening had drained me.

“’Night, gorgeous. Come visit if you have a nightmare,” Joe yawned, shutting his bedroom door.

I paused. I don’t ever have nightmares, I thought. Isn’t that odd? Lucky, a voice in my head chimed, a much higher one than I was used to.

I walked heavily towards my bedroom, my feet ached and my legs felt wooden. A searing cold jolted my spine straight, knocking out my exhaustion. Right in front of my bedroom door. I shuddered and pulled my coat tighter around me. That first night’s sleep was a restless one.

δ

I have a special talent. When the alarm sounds, no matter the early morning hour, I can hop out of bed and do a jig if required. No snooze button for me. No wiggling of the toes and fingers to get the circulation pumped, no yawns, stretches, and mental rundowns of the day’s planned activities. Getting out of bed in the morning is the one thing I am skilled at. And so my first morning in my new apartment was an early one, and as I darted out of bed and into the hallway, a glacial freeze, the kind that makes your toes tap in rhythm for some warmth, gripped me forcefully. Turning around in a circle I held my palms against the cold, searching for a draft to explain away the phenomenon. No breeze, no ventilation, merely dead wintry air. Two steps to the right, safe inside the bathroom, and I could breathe again, the chill nothing but a remembrance.

“Heya, Princess.”

I screamed. “Jesus, Sam, you scared the pee out of me!”

“Those ghost stories last night get to ya?” He chuckled. “I need the bathroom. Hurry it up. You want a pop tart?”

“No thanks.”

I watched as Sam passed by my bedroom door, but he took no notice of the patch of shivery air. “Hey, Sam,” I called after him. He looked at me impatiently, anxious for his pop tart and shower. “Never mind,” I said, shutting the bathroom door.

δ

Two weeks into the first semester of my sophomore year at UCLA and I was seriously considering checking myself into the Neuropsychiatric Institute. I feared I had developed an acute mental disorder, one whose symptoms did not fall within “normal” parameters. I would spend hours at the edge of my bedroom door. Two steps into the hallway and I always felt it—a penetrating cold. Once I had gathered together the courage to step into the chill (my balcony was far too high up to offer an escape route) I would stand in that icy Antarctica for hours. My thoughts would tumble chaotically, banging against my skull, but I could never grab hold. It was as though rooted memories—the first time a jello pudding pop froze to my tongue, burning it raw; the day my mother left and the weeks after when her scent faded from the house; the sleepover that left me in tears because my best friend dumped me for another girl who “needed” her more—became snipped pieces of mismatched fabric. Burned tongues waggled, scents overwhelmed, and the right faces said the wrong things, not at all what I had remembered.

My bedroom was just two short steps away, but still I could not abandon the spot. I turned this way and that, like Alice looking for the rabbit hole. Gradually my body would still and I would wait with my arms outstretched. I could touch the warmth with my fingertips. If I could just embrace it, as I would hot water pouring from the faucet and into a tepid bath. A mere shift to the left, and the spell was broken, the air no longer suffocating. Sometimes I stuck my arm back into the cold, testing its limits. Always, anticipation tapped me on the shoulder, and often I returned. I cultivated a severe case of chapped lips, my grades tanked, and my relationships became…distant.

And so it became quite the ritual, getting in and out of my bedroom. I learned to time it with the comings and goings of Joe and Sam. You see, if they rounded the corner at just the right moment and saw me, I could break my cycle, I could walk towards them as if nothing unusual had taken over, and out the door we would walk. But the nighttimes were different. If I didn’t make it home in time and the boys were already asleep, I would spend the midnight hours walking zombie-like until the sun came as an antibiotic, and the alarms followed, and their doors opened, and I was released. And so it continued, just like that, for months….

δ

I firmly believe that inventors, looking for the missing piece that will secure time travel, are searching the wrong corridors. They fiddle with their science and their technology, chasing faster-than-light wormholes, but the answer to time travel lies in our sleeping consciousness. Who has not been sucked into the vacuum of timeless space that is our dreams? Who has not felt the key turn in the lock and remained suspended for what seems like hours in a repetitive senseless thought? I lay in that space between waking and dreaming the night terror seized me.

I woke with a sharp intake of air. My breath released in a short gasp and I could see a vapor of cold circle my nose. My eyelashes were wet with ice, my teeth chattered willfully, and my toes and fingers were numb with cold. It was below freezing. I stared at the windowpane in front of me. It was laced with icicles. Something was in my room.

I heard it before I felt it: a rush of wind, a cat-like leap, springing from nothingness onto my bed.

I sat up; my legs stretched straight before me and my arms laid numb at my sides. “Who’s there?” I asked, as though these words would help me. Run, I thought, but instead there I sat…paralyzed…talking away fear.

A high-pitched whisper chattered through my brain, rushing through the secret places that carry pain, disappointment, panic. Not words but syllables streamed through my conscience, and I felt my head might split from the shrill sound.

A body slammed into me, pushing me backwards and pinning me to the bed. I could feel the hands; they were small and dainty around my wrists, but the grasp firm. A body pressed against mine, slim, and skeletal, soft breasts that knocked against bone, yet I saw nothing but a haze of cold. My lips parted as if to scream, but betrayed no sound. I struggled against the…being…that held me fast. It lay against me almost erotically, twisting on top of me as if it were trying to melt into my core. It pressed upon me without compassion, choking me with its weight, for although its frame was thin and feminine, its spirit was all power. Mute, I begged with my eyes for release, but the shrill voice in my mind squealed gaily as my fear grew.

Flashes of images flipped through my memory Rolodex, but they were not my own: The edge of a dock and a young boy smiling. A girl with stringy hair waits on the sidewalk, splashing water with her foot; her eyes look straight at me, accusingly. Two tongues inside one mouth, swirling happily together. A hand strikes a cheek, staining it red. Blood squirts fantastically from a vein, and I think I have never seen a fountain so beautiful.

Wanting to escape the slideshow, I concentrated on the foggy outline of my breath. I shut my mind against the piercing echo of ghostly music. The heaviness grew deeper and my breath shallower. I did not know the broad strokes of who I was, but knew the fine details of the being I was becoming. My breath no longer carried its shadow, and to an observer, I might already have appeared dead, lips parted, gaze fixed, breath minute. Sweet Jesus and Hail Marys failed me as I hunted for the right prayer of release. My thoughts formed shape from the maddening torrent of sensations. Go away, my mind murmured. Go away, my thoughts boomed. “Go away!” my voice shouted. The wind rushed backwards and the cold swirled angrily through space as I bolted from my bed, my legs carrying me across my room, over the threshold of my door, and into the safety of the living room, where all was warmth and quiet.

δ

The morning brought the sunshine and the jarring clang of the garbage trucks. Wrapped protectively in a quilt, lips still purple with fright, I recharged my breath to the sounds of life. I hummed to keep myself awake, forever eyeing the cold outside my bedroom door. The buzzing of an alarm clock brought an inane smile to my lips, and I listened like a child for the creak of a bedroom door. I sat, smiling dumbly, as Sam rolled out of his cave. His brow furrowed when he saw me rocking frenziedly back and forth on the littered sofa. I reached out my arms, but he stood bewildered, not reciprocating. “What’s with you this morning?” he asked.

My face crinkled. “Nothing. Couldn’t sleep, I guess.” I folded my arms perversely inward.

Sam yawned and walked toward the bathroom, determined to claim the shower first, but before closing the door, he looked back. “Hey Sara, have you ever noticed how cold it is outside your bedroom door?”

“What do you mean?”

“Right here,” he pointed. “It’s ice cold, and then over here, it’s normal. You’ve never noticed that?”

“No,” I answered, with the steadiest voice I had found all year. “I’ve never noticed it at all.”

δ

I spent the rest of that week on friends’ couches or the occasional bed. At the week’s end, I moved out. Only a week earlier than intended, and the school year had ended so no suspicions were aroused. Sam and Joe helped me pack my belongings, mistaking my silence for girlish moodiness. We lost touch quickly thereafter.

Still I have not shared my ghost story with another living being. Is it shame? A refusal to believe? Or does jealousy cause me to protect our secret? For I cannot deny I feel a connection. I have etched a figure, a face, a color to her being. Her memories still live inside me, and I protect them as I do my own.

I realize now that it is much more frightening to feel what we cannot see, than to see that which is not supposed to exist. A vision can be blinked and rubbed, blurred away as if a dream. Explanation and coincidence erase its validity. But a feeling etches a permanent place in your consciousness. A feeling cannot be reasoned away and will haunt you whenever you try to ignore or disown it. A feeling can suck the life out of you. But a vision, a vision passes right through you, unnoticed. I forget—slip into my illusions. But occasionally I will feel a breeze, or suffer an icy cold, and wonder if she is here with me, if she has followed me, or if she is still trapped in that room, looking for an exhale upon which to escape.

δ

The restaurant was chilly, but the meeting called for bare skin. The girl’s flesh protested with goosebumps.

The man had said to sit on the last stool at the far end of the bar. Her skirt was riding up her thighs. She straightened it. Then she straightened it again. She focused on her hands. She picked at the cuticle of her thumb until blood began to ooze around her fingernail. Frustrated, she dabbed the blood with a napkin, reminding herself that nothing had been decided, the decision was her own.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” she exhaled, her breath cut short. Standing tall at 6-foot-2, the man who addressed her wore his hair trimmed clean and conservative. His face was handsome: strong and rigid, his eyes light and piercing.

“I’m sorry,” the girl said, “but I’m waiting for someone.”

“Yes, I know. You’re waiting for me.”

She was bothered by the man’s smell. It was too close. She had grown unaccustomed. She willed her expression to remain fixed.

“Please stand up.” The man looked her over from top to toe, and the girl wondered just how calibrated his x-ray vision was.

The girl stood.

“How tall are you?” the man asked.

“Five-six.”

“Take off your shoes.”

She slipped off her shoes one by one. He moved in closer, as though to see if their bodies were a fit. The fabric of his gray silk button-down teased her unadorned neckline.

He paused. “Let’s sit down.”

 δ

The day her beloved left, the girl had planned an elaborate meal. She called out his name as she entered with the groceries. When he did not respond, she assumed she was in for a surprise. Perhaps he might pop out from behind a door or have left lilies on the bed. Maybe he had drawn a bath for them both…but the bed was empty of flowers and the bath, dry, and although she scoured her apartment she found neither him nor a note.

She sat for two days by the phone, no food or water to break her fast… she waited.

δ

“You must be available at least four nights a week and one weekend day. You’ll escort me to functions and you’re to conduct yourself in an elegant manner. You are never to say no to me.”

“And my…responsibilities…do they continue into the bedroom?” the girl asked.

The man brushed his thumb across his bottom lip; a gesture the girl took to be involuntary. “I’m a generous partner in bed. You’ll be pleased. I like to have fun, but won’t compromise your safety.”

The girl dug the heel of her shoe into her shin, wondering if the bruise would be deep enough to last a week. “Will you hurt me?

The man’s lips twitched. “Only as much as you’d like.”

The girl lowered her eyes. “Why do you pay for it?”

“I don’t like to be questioned.” The man’s gaze shifted from the girl’s face to the far corner of the bar, where the cheapest tequila sat next to the most expensive whiskey and vodka. “When it comes to a business transaction, I never hear no.”

“You’re taking from a woman her most effective…talent. Her sexuality.” The girl lifted her glass to her mouth.

The man leaned towards the girl. “My goal isn’t to extinguish a woman’s sexuality, but to exploit it.”

“Then you have a lot to learn about a woman’s sexual nature.”

“Her ability to tempt.”

“More than that. Her ability to initiate.”

The man laughed softly. “A woman never instigates sex. You slip on that skirt and fasten your pretty heels because that’s what men want. You may think the desire originates in you, but it doesn’t…you’re simply following the string.”

“Not so with the Bonobos.”

“The Bonobos?”

“The Bonobo apes. The females initiate sex and the males have to fend off their come-ons.”

“I think you’ve misunderstood the theory of evolution. Comparing humans to monkeys doesn’t hold.”

The girl uncrossed her legs, swiveling round her bar stool to face him. “If a woman grabs you by the balls and demands sex, you really have no say in it. Your dick is begging you to put out, and your mind is usually the weaker competitor. A woman on the other hand finds it easier to say no. So why are you so threatened by a woman’s will?”

The man paused. “I thought perhaps you were too young to be affected, but I see it has you too.”

“What. What has me?”

“Softness in a woman has faded into myth.”

The girl looked down at her drink, gone except for a swirl of wine floating at the bottom of the glass.

“You look so gentle. The way your hair curves around your shoulders and your nose turns up with just enough attitude. But inside, you’re different. Hard and stubborn.” The man motioned for the check.

The girl looked up from her drink. “What do I get in return?”

“In return? I’ll set you up in a nice apartment, pay for any schooling, and give you an allowance of $3500 a month.”

The girl calculated for a moment.

“I’m not in school, and I already have a nice apartment. I’ll do it for $6000 a month.”

The man muffled a laugh and placed a hundred on top of the bar. “My dear, you are delightful, but there are a lot of girls who have answered my ad. Now, why should I pay you double?”

“Because I will bend for you.”

“Please don’t mistake me. I don’t want all of you.”

“Of course not. You want only the best of me. I promise to give you that.”

The man clenched his jaw. “Why don’t you smile?”

“Because I’m not happy.”

The man rose from the table.

The girl pictured her beloved and let a smile play across her lips, dusting the corner of her eyes with soft lines. The man took her face in his hands and kissed her hard. “So it is set then.”

 δ

When at last the phone rang the girl was three days without nourishment or rest.

“Eat,” her beloved demanded.

At the sound of his voice, she gripped the phone tightly. Such a sweet command the girl mused, comforted that her beloved knew her patterns so well. The next words she pried out with a chisel. “Where are you?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why have you left me?”

“They forced me. Please be strong. Don’t worry, my angel. We’ll be together again. Fifty-thousand dollars is all I need.”

 δ

The silk dress swayed across her thin hips. The man’s touch tickled the fabric across her back. He held her hand and their steps echoed in sync as they crossed the lobby to the lounge. Crystal, diamond-drop chandeliers and gold-colored lounges provided an opulent backdrop. The girl thought this must be what the inside of a Cristal bottle would look like…if one were trapped in it. She sighed with longing…how she does love champagne.

The girl watched with muted volume as the man entertained his audience with the tale of his latest merger, his monogrammed gold cufflinks winking at her with every gesture. While the rest of the party tried to crack the code that had made the man millions, she followed his cufflinks. Deciphering the tone of each of his gestures, the girl nodded her head and laughed demurely at all the right moments. She decorated his tale quite charmingly, she knew. She focused on his hands until their elegance struck her as grotesque and then shifted her gaze to a woman’s ruby necklace. The girl clasped her costume pearls with her free hand, resisting the urge to wrap them tightly round her neck and pull.

She squeezed the man’s arm with just the right amount of pressure and gave him a kiss on the cheek before excusing herself to the ladies’ room. She locked the door and glided toward the sink. She tossed her purse onto the countertop, ignoring the droplets of water that marked the delicate silk. She washed her hands, scrubbing them thoroughly. Staring into the mirror, she clutched the countertop. She touched her lips with a manicured finger, picking off a fleck of lipstick. Then another.

Moments later, she realized she was almost violently scratching off her lipstick, and that wouldn’t do. Shaking, she reached for her purse, and, steadying her hand, began applying a fresh coat.

      δ

The once smooth silk of her beloved’s voice had turned crackly.

“You don’t sound the same,” the girl said.

“Is the connection bad, my love?”

“No, the connection is clear, but your voice. It has grains of sand stuck in it. Why can’t you leave that desert country?”

“Do you remember the first time we met?”

“Of course I do. Don’t ask me silly questions.”

“Yes, but you don’t remember through my eyes,” her beloved soothed.

The girl dug her nails into her naked thighs, pleased when the imprints remained. “I can barely remember the specks in your eyes, much less the way I looked through them.”

“Your hair was the color of this sun-kissed sand, your skin the sheen of honey, and your eyes, your eyes made me whisper.”

The telephone’s one-note dial tone blared with perfect pitch. The girl cursed and threw the phone across the room, her beloved’s voice lost, the only sound the whir of her table fan spinning round.

      δ

“Spread your legs,” the man ordered.

The girl spread her legs, annoyed by the moisture and heat that rose between them.

“Further.”

The girl pointed her toes and lengthened her muscles.

“Look at me. How can I get what I need, when you refuse to give me your eyes?”

The girl turned her face towards him.

He paused. “You are beautiful.”

The girl steeled her expression.

“Put your hands above your head,” the man instructed. “No, not so much energy. Relax the fingers.” The man grunted. “It’s not working. Take off your shirt.”

The girl took off her shirt, slipping it over her head.

“Now, the hands again.”

The girl slid her hands up her body and over her head.

The click of the camera told the girl she had at last mastered the pose.

      δ

The girl lay on her back, a soft white sheet her only companion. She gently stroked her thigh and let her hand wander to her clitoris, massaging it firmly. The girl struggled for an image of her beloved’s face, but the picture kept turning. She squeezed her breasts, imagining that the fingers were his, but the caresses remained cold. An image of the man surfaced. Startled, she realized her caresses had turned painful. Her breasts were etched with scratches.

She jumped at the sound of the ringing phone.

“I need you,” the man said.

The girl inhaled.

δ

The girl was adjusting better than she had intended. Here, among the wealthy and noted, cocooned inside oak walls and high ceilings, she danced. Round and round she spun; her jeweled eyes avoided the searching expression of the man who held her close.

“Let’s go outside. There’s something I’d like to show you,” the man said, leading her away from the crowd and onto the terrace.

The night air greeted her with an icy slap and she clutched as if at an invisible wrap around her shoulders.

“I bought you something.” The man removed a small black box from his pocket.

The girl’s expression turned sour but softened when she thought that perhaps she could sell the gift. She opened it without sentiment, but a flash of tenderness overwhelmed her when she saw her eyes reflected in the lucid blue of the aquamarine gem. The cut of the stone spiraled into diagonals, splitting her gaze in half and pulling her thoughts back into focus. She looked at the man with reproach. “A monetary bonus would have been more appropriate than a trinket, I think.”

“This trinket brings out the light in your eyes. Let me put it on you.”

The girl lifted her hair.

“Sailors wore amulets of aquamarine. They believed it inspired them with the bravery to battle any storm.”

The girl shivered as the man hooked the clasp. “I don’t plan on going to sea anytime soon. Unless you’re forcing me to go on a cruise?”

“So brave on the surface but you forget how close we’ve been. I can feel you inside. You don’t need to fear anything with me.”

“I don’t fear you.”

The man scooped her hands into his, kissing her tattered cuticles. “No. But you fear when you’re not with me. Now I am always here.”

The girl pulled her hands away. The man lifted her chin and brushed her lips with his.

“Are you happy?”

“Enough.” The girl remembered to smile.

      δ

“I’m sorry, but the line is still busy,” the operator said.

The girl swore, hanging up the receiver. “He always answers at this time!” She pictured her beloved in some kind of danger. Then, jealousy began to invade the sane parts of her mind.

The girl picked up the telephone with a fresh start. She dialed the numbers with ease. Greeted by the sound of a busy signal, she clenched her jaw. Fingers dialing, busy signal answering. Fingers dialing, busy signal answering. Fingers dialing… “Hello,” the man answered on the first ring.

“Hello,” the girl’s eyes popped open, confused by the man’s deep voice. “What do you want?” the girl asked.

“You called me.”

The girl looked down at her fingers disapprovingly. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Why?”

“I guess…I guess I need you.”

      δ

“You’ve been looking at that painting for the last twenty minutes,” the man observed.

“Girl Reading at Table. 1934.  Pablo Picasso,” the girl read aloud from the plaque. “I like it.”

“It’s one of my favorites also.” The man put a hand on her shoulder. “She was Picasso’s favorite mistress.”

“Are you sure she was his favorite?”

“Yes. Look at the delicacy of the brushstroke.”

“I think she is hideous looking. He has distorted what were probably her finest features.”

“He had no choice.”

“Why would a man disfigure his woman?”

“In order to remain in control.”

“What is the best part of me?” The girl looked up into the man’s eyes.

“Your laughter.”

“But you’ve never heard me laugh.”

“Yes.”

A soft chuckle escaped the girl’s voice and, trembling, she clutched the lapels of the man’s coat and kissed him hard.

δ

“I almost have what you need.”

Her beloved paused. “This money. Where is it coming from?”

Her beloved’s words rang too sharp. The girl pressed the receiver tightly to her ear and concentrated instead on the low humming. His words blunted into a soft echo that bounced, not pricked, against her senses.

“Who’s giving you this money?”

“I’ve earned it.”

“How?”

The girl plucked a single strand of gray from her bangs. Her first. A sign of stress, she thought. She blamed her beloved. “Just an extra job…at night…that’s all.”

“I’m not taking your money!”

“But I did this for you!” The girl’s voice had lost its sweetness.

“Do you love me?”

She considered. “I’m better with you.”

The call ended.

      δ

They lay spent. The man licked the beads of sweat that had collected between the girl’s breasts. She smiled and tousled his hair. Never before had she been so satisfied, she thought.

“Where shall we go? Spain? Italy?”

“I like it here just fine.” The corners of the girl’s mouth threatened to turn down.

“But this is your choice. Surely you have a preference.”

The girl rolled onto her stomach. “I told you. I can’t travel.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Whichever you prefer.”

“Ah, but you can’t say no to me, and I wish to escape.”

The girl turned to face the man. The playful veil lifted from her eyes and her smile hardened into a frown.

“Why is your heart so hard?” the man asked.

“Hard doesn’t mean unaffected. Glass is hard and it breaks.”

“You surrender to me in bed…”

The girl brought her knees into her chest. “Only because I cannot help myself.”

The man shot out of bed, his long fingers finding distraction in his hair. “This was not our deal. You said I could have the best of you!”

“I’ve given you all that is inside of me to give.”

The man paced and the girl wondered just how much his insides were burning. “I want it given freely. Not because of our arrangement, but because you love me.”

“Do I?” the girl asked, sincerely wanting to know. “I might.”

The man kneeled in front of her. “I can’t go back. You’ve ruined me.”

“I know.” The girl’s eyes blurred with tears. “I willed it.”

The man wrapped her hands in his. “Marry me.”

“I can’t,” the girl whispered.

“Marry me!”

The girl found her voice. “Our deal is over.”

She ducked as the glass vase shattered against the wall.

δ

She leaned against the car, searching the faces of the arriving passengers. The girl fingered the gem around her neck, and saw the shadow of her beloved waving in the distance, refusing to materialize even now. She embraced the solid gold chain and pulled fiercely, breaking the clasp. She let the aquamarine gemstone fall from her hands and walked towards her beloved. The girl marveled at the feel of wet teardrops staining her cheeks. They embraced forever, it seemed. Her beloved peered into her eyes, seeing her clearly. He smiled, his lips not as full as the girl had remembered. He kissed her lashes.

δ

One night with her beloved, and never before had she felt so unsatisfied, she thought, as she twisted her faux diamond engagement ring on her finger round and round. She watched, distantly, as it cut the skin, the torn flesh clinging to the ring’s merry-go-round, and her frown hardened into a smile.

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