Luxuriant scents touched him palpably as deft hands. From somewhere music played; he could see the notes floating from the speakers, a slow passacaglia by Bach. Each dark note seemed to approach him like an amorphous physical presence.
He felt skewered; he couldn’t move. He felt cosmically heavy and light as air at the same time. He could hear the blood push through the arteries in his brain.
“Watch,” a voice kneaded him.
He opened his eyes. The smeared lights dulled to pasty white, images congealing like lard, squirming.
When he realized what he was looking at, he screamed.
He was looking at his own body sprawled beneath him.
He felt his distant muscles seize, his tendons tighten. He watched his sweat-sheened chest heave in terror.
Wet, syrupy laughter launched about his head like a flock of great black birds.
The old Tercel coughed against the cold, then sputtered to start. Cracks had formed in the dash, the upholstery was peeling, and the brakes squealed as Vera pulled out of the lot and turned onto West Street.
It was fun to think about, at least.
She knew she’d made the right decision. What other decision was there? To even consider taking Feldspar’s offer was nothing more than a fantasy. Still, she wondered what Paul would say.
The Tercel puttered on, hitching through gears. The heater blared cold air. She rounded Church Circle and veered onto Duke of Glouchester. Spectral blue lights illuminated the great dome of the State House, below the bright moon. Icy street lamps shimmering through the winter air made the streets look frosted. More light weirdly assaulted her at the turn before the bridge: an ambulance roving slowly with its red lights throbbing but no siren.
Her mind strayed as she traversed the bridge. The bay chopped, treacherously black with squirming tails of moonlight. Beyond, myriad sailboats and yachts bobbed in their marina slips.
She and Paul shared a decent two-bedroom apartment off Spa Road. It was nice, not too expensive, and all they needed. Paul used the second bedroom for an office, to write. They’d accepted the commonplace nuisances of apartment living—occasionally squalling babies, footsteps on the ceiling, and the explosive wee-hour arguments from the neighbors—as part of the deal. Soon they’d move to a townhouse, or maybe even a small home when they’d banked enough money for a decent down payment. Like most else in life, a relationship could only proceed one step at a time.
Vera parked. The lot stretched on coldly with dark cars. It wasn’t even midnight yet; she was home earlier than usual, which was a good thing, considering the crush of diners they’d had tonight. She felt seduced by the idea of a good night’s sleep.
The moon rose so brightly she squinted; her high heels tapped along the frigid sidewalk. She whisked herself up the steps, fleeing the bitter cold like muggers, and sighed at the gush of heat when she let herself in.
The living room was dark.
