Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed

and intensity, become black or green or a horrible yellow.

This has been hard for me to realize. I've been stuck at the light crystal colors, unable to absorb the stronger colors.

I know he does it to help me, still it shakes me to the core.

His theory is that I've experienced something in my childhood that stops me from letting go sexually. I've tried and tried to think of what it could be, but have come up with nothing.

We experiment to help me move on, united in our love. I sit on top of him, feeling him deep inside of me as he hits me hard in the face with the palm of his hand. I stop short, my eyes full of tears. I ask him why he does that.

He caresses my cheek and pushes hard and deep inside me. It's to help you, he says, hits me again, and then continues hard until he comes.

***

We talk about it in detail afterward- how we're to find the way back to the divine dimension of our relationship. It's lack of trust. I know that. I have to trust him. How else will I ever succeed?

We are the most important thing

there is

to each other.

Wednesday 1 August

Annika walked into the newspaper entrance hall just before 9 A.M. Tore Brand was at reception and gave her a glum greeting.

'Bombs and shootings,' he said. 'That's all they're interested in at this paper.'

He nodded toward the Kvallspressen table of contents that was posted over by the elevator. Annika looked at it. It took her a few seconds to process the information. She felt the floor swaying beneath her feet. It can't be, she thought, grabbing the reception counter and reading the bill again: 'Terrorist Act Last Night- Ninja Barbies Taunt the Police.'

There was a big photograph of a burning car.

'Who wrote the story?' she whispered.

'Riots and scandals, that's all we do here,' Brand muttered.

She walked over to the display and picked up a copy of the paper. Almost the whole front page was devoted to a photo of Minister for Foreign Trade Christer Lundgren. Next to him, arm around his shoulders, was the prime minister. Both men were smiling cheerfully. The picture had been taken eight months ago, when the minister was appointed and was being introduced to the media. Annika thought the headline was lame: 'Under Fire.' Above the newspaper masthead was the headline from the bill, referring to pages six and seven. She opened the paper to the spread with trembling hands. Her eyes flew across the page, looking for the byline. Carl Wennergren.

She let the paper drop.

'Isn't it a damn shame?' Tore Brand said.

'You're damn right it is,' Annika said, and walked over to the elevators.

She sat down in the cafeteria with a big mug of coffee and a sandwich. The coffee went cold while she read the two stories, first the one about the Ninja Barbies and then the one about the minister accused of murder.

They got what they were after, she thought, and looked for a long time at the photo of the burning car. The car was turned on its side, the underside facing the photographer, who was Carl Wennergren. The caption noted that the car belonged to a Stockholm police commissioner. Behind the flames you could make out a sixties brick house. The Ninja Barbies got to deliver their puerile and violent message. Not a single critical word appeared in the entire article. Shame on him, she thought. Shame on him, the rotten bastard.

The copy about the minister was better. It took the accusations made on Studio 69 for what they were, unconfirmed allegations of vague suspicions. They hadn't been able to get hold of the minister himself for a comment, but his press secretary, Karina Bjornlund, declared that all accusations were pure invention.

Annika didn't know what to think. The police had in fact interviewed Christer Lundgren; the press officer had confirmed that yesterday. But all other statements in the program were definitely wrong. And what about their suspicions about Joachim?

She threw the sandwich in the wastebasket without even removing the wrapping. She drank the cold coffee in three greedy gulps.

Spike was at his post, telephone glued to his ear. He didn't react to Annika' showing up on her day off; it was common for the covers to do that.

'You were way off the mark on the murder,' he said as he put the phone down.

'You mean about the minister? The story doesn't make sense,' Annika said.

'Oh, doesn't it? Why not?'

'I want to look into that today, if that's all right with you.'

'We were lucky to have the scoop on the Ninja Barbies. Or we'd have been forced to make more of the murder and the minister. It would have looked a bit weird to have two different murderers in two days, don't you think?'

Annika turned red. She couldn't think of a response.

Spike's eyes were cold, watchful. 'Thanks to Carl we landed on our feet.' The news editor spun around in his chair, showing her the back of his balding head.

'Sure. Is Berit in yet?'

'She's gone to Faro to look for the speaker. The IB scoop,' Spike said without turning around.

Annika walked over to her desk and dropped her bag on the floor; her cheeks were burning. She wouldn't be getting a picture byline for a while.

She skimmed through the other papers to see what they had on the minister and the suspicions against him. No one had made a particularly big thing of it. The morning broadsheets only mentioned in brief that Minister Christer Lundgren had been interviewed regarding the murder of a woman in Stockholm. The Rival had given the items the same ranking as Kvallspressen.

How could Studio 69 be so sure of their information? Annika wondered. They've got to have more than they're letting on.

The thought of it made her stomach turn. Why do I feel so guilty? she asked herself.

Despite the air-conditioning, the room was stuffy and hot. She went out to the ladies' room and splashed cold water on her face.

I've got to get this straight, she thought. I've got to get the whole picture. What did I miss?

She leaned her forehead against the mirror and closed her eyes. The glass was ice-cold and the chill spread via her sinuses into the bone.

The woman, she thought. The fat woman with the dog, Daniella's neighbor.

She wiped her face dry with a paper towel. She left a sweaty mark on the mirror.

***

The new deputy editor, Anders Schyman, was troubled. Naturally, he was aware of the ethical difficulties that came with his new post, but he would have liked to have had a few days before having to do any acrobatics on the moral trapeze. What was this hysterical story Carl Wennergren had found? A feminist combat group that set fire to cars and sent threatening messages to police officers. What the hell was that? And not a single critical comment, only the extremely predictable statement from the police press officer that they took the incident seriously and had deployed all necessary resources to finding the perpetrators.

The deputy editor sighed and sat down on a couch with an orange flowery pattern that had come with his