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Been There, Done That, Bought the T-Shirt

By

AngelRad

JOURNAL ENTRY
September 30th

7:12 a.m.- Not sure many September 30th's have passed since I last wrote in this. Thirty? Forty? I don't know...enough to make me sick of existence altogether. I do know that. Have come to the conclusion that this is Tartarus and for me, September 30th is the modern equivalent of Sisyphus rolling a boulder up hill forever.

Why did I write today? Not sure. Woke up feeling lonely. Called mom. She was very sweet... busy helping dad remove leaves from the gutters... couldn't talk long. Sad to think that parents will be doing yard work for all eternity.

2:36 p.m.- Spent the morning wandering around, dawdling in bookstores, watching people scurrying around like ants. Feel very hollow, like cheap chocolate Easter bunny. Bought 12 new books, but then realized they will disappear before I can finish them.

3:41 p.m.-Can't think. Just keep wandering around house. Have practically timed the passing of cars on the street. I know the mail comes precisely at 3:12 and that it will be nothing but bills and magazine subscriptions. I know that Mrs. Haft down the street will come out of her house in an hour, five minutes and six seconds and scream at little AJ to come inside and eat dinner. I know that the evening news will bring grim tidings from the Mideast and bland speeches from the president.

6:49 p.m.-Did not intend to go to concert. Quiet was too much for me. Could hear the blood roaring in my ears. Already seen everything on television. Had to get out. Wanted to talk to friends, pretend for awhile that nothing was wrong. All of my friends are at the concert, though. So I'm going.

11:02 p.m.- Where do I begin? Momentous changes! I don't know how to describe what I'm feeling. I'll start with the concert. It started out as per usual.

As I approached the gate, saw Ruanne peering at me with that sweet smile. Felt guilty. Shoved spare ticket in her hand then walked away before she had a chance to offer the beer.

I'm off women forever, I told myself.

But I did want company. Headed right for the T-shirt stand. Debbie and Sandy were in mid-snuggle when I approached.

Debbie was thrilled to see me--another opportunity to share her joy. She started to introduce me. "Nat, I'd like you to meet..."

"Sandy," I said offering the tall woman my hand to shake. "We've met."

Sandy appeared puzzled at my little slip, but shook my hand anyway. Debbie looked like I'd stolen her thunder.

"It's okay," I reassured them. "It was just in passing. You wouldn't remember it anyway. You got a second, Deb?"

"Sure. Come with us while we find a place to sit."

The three of us made our way through the crowd, Debbie and Sandy arm in arm, me straggling sullenly behind.

It was almost time for the show to start and most of the lawn was full of excited people, drinking, talking and generally getting rowdy.

Sandy negotiated with a group of young college girls for a tiny patch of lawn in which to sit. Debbie pulled a plaid, wool blanket from her backpack and unfurled it on the trampled grass. Even this simple act was rewarded with smoochies and baby talk compliments. I felt my blood sugar levels skyrocket just watching them together.

I suppose my disgust must have been obvious, because Debbie cut short the cuddlefest and asked Sandy to fetch us all some beers. Sandy said sure and was fortified for her long absence by yet another deep, prolonged kiss. After she left, Debbie sat down next to me on the blanket, contentment radiating from her in tangible waves. It made it that much harder for me to confess all my troubles.
"Debbie, I need to tell you something," I said. "It will sound strange but you've got to believe me. All of it's true."

She rolled her eyes at me, the exultant expression fading into more habitual and recognizable disdain. That was the Debbie I knew. She stuffed her hands in her overalls pockets. "Don't say it," she said. "I already know. You and Cheryl broke up, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah," I began, but she cut me off. It was too late to get in a word edgewise. She was in full lecture mode.

"I just knew this was coming," she sighed, shaking her head. Even her curly hair quivered in vehemence. "Actually, I expected it to end a lot sooner. I never liked that girl anyway. But what are we going to do with you, hon? You're such a little self-contained unit. You're like somebody who's been shut up too long in a dark room."

"Huh?" I said. Debbie just assumes everyone is clued into the convoluted inner workings of her mind. She often trails off into unintelligibility without knowing it.

Debbie continued, judgmentally peering at me over the top of her tortoiseshell glasses. She's an English professor so she excels at long-winded comparisons. I resigned myself to a good, long scolding.

"Did you know the eyes keep searching for light, even when there is none?" Behind the thick lenses, her eyes got wide and she nodded, as if I had disagreed with her. "Well, they do. It's true. Eventually, if you stay in the dark too long, you go blind. And that's exactly what's happened to you."

She crossed her arms and looked smug, as if her point had been totally obvious--(which, as usual, it wasn't.)

"I see fine, Debbie. 20/20."

"Nooo! You don't! You're totally *blind* to the possibilities of love, real love--get it? You're so cynical about relationships! You don't have an optimistic bone in your whole body. I know you're a good person, Nat. But I'm afraid for you. I don't think you're ever going to really fall in love. Don't you want to grow old with someone? Don't you have any hopes or dreams?"

So I got defensive. "Hey, I'm all about hopes and dreams," I said. "I hope, someday, to find a gorgeous, nubile young lady with high morals and low standards, someone who's passionate wish is to fufill my every whim. If that isn't optimism, I don't know what is."

Debbie gave me a disgusted grimace-- she's good at those. "That's denial," she said disapprovingly. "You choose the most unsuitable women and then put them up on a pedestal. They're bound to fall off... but that's the point! You set them up to fail! You want them to fall off. You totally sabotage your relationships before they even start, just by choosing the kind of women who really don't fit into your life."

She gave me a sort of "aha, take that." look. I couldn't deny that most of the women I have dated were incompatible. But opposites attract right? That's a universal. Everybody knows that.

I tried to explain this to Debbie but she wouldn't have it.

"I'm sorry," she said, her chin high in the air. "But I've come to a decision and it's for you own good. Until you start getting realistic, I'm not having the relationship chat with you. Go drown your sorrows with Robin and Julie. Y'all are just alike. Immature, right down to your Underoos. There's no reasoning with any of you."

"But Debbie, that's not what I wanted to..."

Again, she cut me off. "I know. I know. You're going to trot out the old 'free spirit' speech again. Well, just remember this, my friend." She got up and dusted off her jeans, looking down at me darkly. "Most free spirits end up alone and lonely. Let that gel awhile. I'm going to go find my girlfriend."

She stomped away.
I wanted to be offended at her scathing tone, but deep down, I couldn't deny that her words were true.

She's just being snippy because I rained on her parade, I told myself. But I felt uneasy, nervous, almost frightened.

I got to my feet. A film of sweat covered my whole body despite the cool night breezes drifting lazily across the slanted lawn. The sun was sinking low. The roadies were making a racket setting up onstage. All around me, couples were snuggling closer, holding hands, kissing and talking.

Suddenly it was unbearable that I should be here alone. I saw my existence stretching out before me, a parade of lonely Friday nights, never growing older, never dying, never finding anyone to understand, until finally, I just went crazy from it all.

Scanning the crowd in desperation, all I could see were happy, happy faces. How did they have it so good and my life was crap?

It was as if the world was my very own Taj Mahal but I couldn't see the beauty of it but everyone else could. To me, it was a brokendown shack, not the splendid palace everyone seemed to be exclaiming over. I rattled around in life's largesse like a lone marble in a shoebox, heedless of the thousand other marbles rolling right along with me.

The crowds of handholding fools parted as I stumbled through, my mind focused on these strange visions, my stomach churning. I felt thoroughly saturated by the overpowering patois of burbling voices. The blur of faces everywhere were strangely familiar and yet still so foreign, like a family reunion full of people you had no idea were related to you. I drifted among them, rudderless and reeling. I didn't know where I was going or what I was doing.

Angry and desperate and bitter over theses absurdities, I just wanted to walk and walk until the end of the world presented itself. In my mind, this would be the jutting edge of a sidewalk crumbling into a deep chasm of nothingness. And when I found it, I would just jump into it and forget.

But I'm happy to report, there is no such comforting nothingness, at least not for me.

In my broody meanderings through the arena, I hadn't bothered to look up to see where I was going.

Big mistake.

Crash and splash. The drunken gaggle of girls had found their target once again.

The feel of tepid beer and foam soaking through my jeans (forgot the leathers, dammit!) woke me from my morbid reveries. But I didn't cry out the usual expletives. Nor did I bother to chew out the smashed sisters who were gripping their "Marry Me Melissa" sign in fear of retribution. I was too surprised that I was still there, at the arena. As much as I'd walked and wondered, I'd expected to be in Tibet or somewhere equally as far and austere.

"I'm sorry," one of the smashed sisters said. I think I looked at her in surprise, tears springing to my eyes unexpectedly.

"Thank you," I said with deep gratitude, my voice breaking. "Thank you for finally apologizing."

This was new. Anything new was good. No-- anything new was amazing, astounding, worthy of a parade. I wanted to cry, I mean, really bawl like I haven't done since I was nine-years old. I felt like I was nine. Everything seemed just as mystifying as it did then; so much beyond my understanding that it was pointless to try... might as well go ride my bike and forget.

The girl appeared puzzled, but she was drunk, so she didn't question the 'finally.' She nodded, big hair bobbing up and down as she did, and then wandered off, haphazardly toting one end of the sign.

I watched her big hair disappear, and then turned, without really meaning to, toward the bathrooms.

What did it matter if I walked around with foam all over my lap? Why worry about being neat and clean when the world never changed and the people in it never noticed that you were the axis around which all of their disparate lives spun?
And then a striking thought occurred. Nothing would happen, nothing would change for them until the pin that held them in their orbits was pulled free.

And I was the pin.

Bile, swift and sure, rose in my throat as the guilt washed over me in waves. So many people whirled and waltzed around me, flowing past me like I was the only rock in their streams, the only constant, the only impediment to their collective futures, and I hadn't even bothered to see them. They were a backdrop to my misery and nothing more.

But that had suddenly changed. Each and every face swam into focus.

That girl in pink capri pants will never graduate high school because of my hateful karma, I thought. The two women hissing at each other behind the refreshment stand will never resolve their argument because I keep waking up with the same hangover everyday. The girl with the purple buzz cut hair, she would never get a chance to grow out that bad hair day. And what about that little blonde woman wearing the big hoop earrings? What was she waiting for that would never come? It was a bewildering array of arrested possibilities, these faces, and the burden of their fates was strapped to my back.

Overwhelmed, I closed my eyes, but the faces stayed with me. I found myself crossing the threshold into the cool, tiled interior of the bathroom, the foul stench of the place making my stomach fold in upon itself even more.

You know, a sudden thought has occured while I write this. Why am I even bothering? Might as well write it in water. It will be gone in the morning, just like the T-shirt I persist in buying every time.

I guess I just want to remember this night. No matter how many September 30th's I must endure, I want to be able to picture the perfection of this night. I write the details so that the clarity of this particular September 30th will never waver.

When I wake up with the same hangover in the morning, shining beyond the dull thud of pain will be this night. The memory can't be taken away from me. And so I'll continue, noting everything right down to the mole on the ticket-takers face if that's what it takes to cement it in my mind.

Where was I? Oh yes, the bathroom...

I walked into the bathroom and then... Slam! A stall door blasted open, nearly sending it off its creaky hinges. A woman lurched out toward the sinks, her face ashen.

I knew this woman. I had just enough time to get out of the way before she sprayed her lunch all over the chipped porcelain.

Again, the femmes screamed and raced from the bathroom. I stared, aghast.

She met my eyes in the mirror, smiled a weary half smile and said, "You can imagine my embarrassment at this moment," without displaying the slightest hint of said emotion.

Heaving a stupendous sigh, she went to another sink and turned on the rusty tap, splashed her face with water a couple of times and then gargled, spitting it into the basin. I studied her as she made herself presentable.

She was cute, even post vomit, though it was not the kind of cute that usually garnered my attention. She was a little too butch for my tastes, blonde hair cut so short it stood up in wispy spikes all over her head. She wore a white tank that showed tanned, muscular arms to perfection and jeans, with a red sweatshirt tied around her waist. She was the kind of girl that was bound to catch your eye. She had this hard to describe quality, an attention-grabbing kind of vitality that brimmed over with every slow, graceful and unhurried gesture. Even after spewing like a fire hose, she still had a sparkle, kind of like a faded pixie, or a beautiful flower that's been pressed between the pages of a book until it's too fragile to touch. I couldn't stop staring. She turned her head and looked at me, smirking slightly.

"You look a little green around the gills yourself there, sister. You okay?" she asked, her voice heavy with a drunken slur.

"I'm fine," I lied, but she didn't buy it, just raised an eyebrow at me.
"Sugar, if you call that fine, I'm worried about you," she said, and I realized the heavy sound wasn't a drunken aberration, but a real honest to goodness southern accent. That was rare enough around these Yankee parts to be considered remarkable.

"No, I'm okay," I hastened to reassure her, stepping past the foul sink to another where I began to wash my hands more thoroughly than necessary. She watched me do this, noting the way I fumbled with the soap dispenser. Another brow lifted in my direction.

"You don't look so fine," she said, wiping her pale lips with a brown paper napkin. "I just hate to say it, but you look worse than me, dahlin'." Her eyes, brilliant green but rimmed in red, slid over me, taking in the evidence of my recent collision with a beverage tray. I'd forgotten that.

"Yeah, well, nobody ever looks the way they really feel do they?" I said and grabbed some paper towels to wipe ineffectually at the dark stain on my pants. I was surprised and rather unnerved to hear myself becoming all philosophical in front of a stranger.

She grimaced at herself in the mirror, then reached into her back pocket and pulled out a lipstick. "No I s'pose they don't. Good thing, too. At least for me it's good. I'd scare small children if I looked the way I feel right now."

Still staring at me from the mirror, she cupped her hand over her lips and whispered, "I happen to have a tragic allergy to hops, if you can believe it. I say tragic because I really like beer."

She shrugged at her reflection. "I still indulge occasionally, much to my own detriment. But one little cupfull and I turn into Linda Blair from the Exorcist. Hence my unfortunate display. Do forgive me."

Winking playfully, she pressed her lips together and then blotted them on a paper towel.

"Much, much better," she said, satisfied with what she saw. (Only her 'better' sounded like 'bettah.' She sounded like Vivian Leigh in Gone With The Wind.) "You know, I may have actually absorbed some of that beer." (said with two syllables "bee-yah") "I may even be a little tipsy. Isn't that wonderful?"

Her green eyes latched onto me as she laughed, inviting me to share her little joke. I was still staring, mouth probably hanging open. She must have been drunk. I've never had strangers talk to me like that. I have a rather fierce looking face, I've been told. It does not encourage confidences. But apparently, she didn't need encouragement.

"Dahlin," she said after a few moments of me not smiling or speaking. "I'm starting to get worried about you. You have a crisis face."

I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly. "Excuse me. I have a what?"

She nodded and squinted at me. "Yep. You sure do. Look at those eyes. I'm freezing to death just looking at them. And that mouth! I bet it's pretty when it's not all puckered up like that. Honey, look at yourself! You're at defcon three!"

"Huh?" Are all southern women this loony, I wondered?

Then the thrum of a bass guitar and an exultant cheer from the crowds outside announced the presence of the Divine Ms. M onstage and 'Hello, Ohio!' echoed through the bathroom.

I was grateful for the interruption. Considering my state of mind at that moment, having a stranger address me like that was almost as jarring as being in a play and having one of the pieces of scenery come alive and ask me to tea. It was weird.

'You don't get it, Scarlett,' I wanted to say. 'Of course I look like a train wreck. The whole friggin universe is out of whack and it's my fault! Because of me, you'll spew till the end of time! I'd call that a crisis, wouldn't you?'

But I didn't. I held it in. A woman with short, gray hair walked in at that moment, wrinkling her nose at the stench and the vomit in the sink as she passed between us. I took that as my cue to leave.

"I gotta go," I said to the girl. I started to walk away when a hand on my arm stopped me in my tracks.
She had a surprisingly strong grip for one so short. I looked over my shoulder and she was smiling up at me like we were old friends.

"Am I being a bulldozer again?" she asked in all innocence, batting long eyelashes at me. "I tend to do that. It's one of my five worst faults. It's terrible. You'll have to get to know me better before I tell you the other four, though."

Again, she winked as if our meeting and all this cheery banter was a staged event. "I tell you what," she said, lightly tapping me on the shoulder. "I could cheer you up. I'm pretty good at that. It's one of my five best traits, or so I've been told."

Before I could stop myself I said, "But I have to get to know you better before you'll tell me the other four, right?"

Flirtation is contagious. I believe that.

She smiled a particularly brilliant smile and I felt something uncoil within me, something that had been wound up pretty tight until that moment.

"Exactly," she said with approval.

"But you don't know me," I said.

"A couple hours will change that, I think," she said, and it did... boy, did it.

Her name was Rosalind, but I wasn't to call her that. Her friends called her Lindy, she said and she insisted that's the only name she would hear out of my mouth.

I shrugged and said a dazed 'okay' as she led me from the bathroom, her arm slipping through mine, hooking elbows as we tromped across the empty courtyard. Melissa's braying high notes pierced the air and the crowd gustily sang along with her. Bass rumbled through the concrete underfoot as thousands of female throats cried out in unison. It should have been quite a thrill, but I'd heard it all before. I glanced down at my erstwhile companion. Lindy didn't seem to mind missing the concert. As a matter of fact, she acted as if I was the one person in all the world she had come here to see. It was both flattering and weird. She chattered on ceaselessly, about one odd thing after another. I couldn't absorb it all, but it was strangely comforting. I felt a little dizzy having her next to me like that, like I'd just come off of the ferris wheel only to jump on the tilt-a-whirl before I could catch my breath.

"C'mon," she said suddenly, green eyes getting wide. She started tugging at my arm. "I got an idea."

And this is where the night gets really strange. Even as I jot this down I have my doubts, as if it happened to some other person and not me. But I have proof that it did happen... wonderful proof.

We stole around to the front of the arena, sprinting past security like we were on some secret mission. (She sprinted, actually. I just lumbered behind.)

Then we'd reached the partitioned area, the one that was fenced off and had a sign that read 'Authorized Personnel Only.' That's when I started to chicken out.

"No way," I said. She had her leg halfway over the fence.

"Hurry up!" she whispered frantically, giggling like mad. "Security will be coming along any minute!"

"Why are you whispering? The speakers are at, like, sixteen decibels. No one's going to hear you."

She stopped trying to hoist her other leg over and sighed. "Are you always this practical, Miss scaredy-cat? Just come on! It'll be fun. What's the worst that could happen?"

The worst that could happen? I figured that the most horrific thing would be that I'd get caught, get sent to jail, and wake up in the morning still locked up.
So, I started to climb the fence.

Even jail would be an improvement over my current situation as long as it got me to tomorrow.

When I dropped down next to Lindy on the other side, she grabbed my arm again and ran noiselessy across the asphalt, dragging me behind her. A few security guards patrolled in the distance, but we somehow managed to avoid detection. We'd landed in a pocket of darkness that encompassed the perimeter of the tall wooden fence, but I still felt exposed. The air felt close and stifling. Had the temperature actually gone up without me noticing it? I couldn't breathe, but I was panting like a dog.

"I told you I was going to cheer you up," she said as we crouched behind a giant stack of black instrument cases. The band onstage geared up for another song and the screams from the audience trilled down my spine. "And I will if it kills me," she continued. "I'm on a mission now."

She peered around the edge of the cases to make sure the coast was clear. I saw what she was looking at and my heart started galloping faster than a Kentucky Derby winner.

"No. No. No. Abort. No way I'm doing that."

Lindy was impervious to my no's. She gave me an exasperated roll of the eyes and said. "You can't tell me you've come this far and you just wanna give up? It's right there. Lifestyles of the rich and famous just waiting for you to sneak a little peak."

She turned to me and gripped my hands in her own, appearing very solemn and confident at the same time. "Heaven sakes! Look, I swear on my momma, you won't get caught, okay? Just do this for me. It'll be fun."

"Why are you doing this?" I asked her, searching her flushed face for signs of insanity. I couldn't figure her out. People just don't act that way and yet there we were, like a couple of deranged sorority sisters pulling a raid on a rival sorority, only the object she wanted to infiltrate wasn't a sorority house. It was Melissa's tour bus.
"You can just call me your little angel of mercy, dahlin," she said, crouching down even lower as a security guard came near. She dropped her voice to that ridiculous whisper again. "I couldn't leave you in that horrible bathroom all alone. You just looked like a dog that's been kicked one too many times and I hate to see people suffer."

She was pressed against me, her curves melting against my arm. We were practically bent over each other and I was indecently aware of the feel of her. It was humiliating.

"So I'm charity? This is a charity mission?" I said a little too sharply. The security guard stopped and looked around and Lindy elbowed me in the ribs. We held our breath until he walked away.

I stood up.

"Where ya goin?" she asked me.

"I don't need this crap," I told her and started to walk toward the fence. I was just going to casually stroll out of there. To hell with her, I thought. All women play games. I was sick of games.

"Wait a minute, honey!" She caught up with me.

"And what's with the honeys and the dahlins? You don't even know my name and you call me honey? This is just too weird for me right now, okay?"

I started to walk away again.

"So what is it, then?"

She was walking right behind me.

"What is what?" I said.
"Your name, dahlin? If you didn't want me to be familiar, you should have told me your name. And it isn't charity, sugar. I just happened to like your face. I got a feeling about you, like a deja vu, ya know?"

I turned to look at her, to see if I was getting another dose of southern charm or if she was being serious. Her face was half in darkness. We stood in the shadow of the fence. But I could see a touching seriousness there, a solemn set of the lips and chin that somehow, all at once, reassured me and made me feel embarrassed for being so prickly.

I held out my hand. "Natalie, my name is Natalie."

Another dazzling smile was my reward. She shook my hand and laughed very sweetly.

"My pleasure, Natalie dahlin. I'm delighted to make your acquaintance. I feel it will be very rewarding. Now, if you don't mind. I'm just dying of curiosity. We just have to look in that bus. It won't hurt anybody."

"You're right," I said with my trademark sarcasm, but I felt myself giving in. "All these years I've been all wrongheaded about breaking and entering. It's not against the law for me, just for other people."

"We are not breaking and entering," she replied tartly. "We are simply paying respectful homage to true talent. There's a difference."

"Sure there is." Actually, what I'd said was true. The laws didn't really apply to me anymore, did they? There would be no consequences for me if I broke one. Hell, I could go on a crime spree and no one would ever be the wiser. But what good would that do? Why bother pillaging when you can't keep the booty?

Waste of time.

No. To waste means to carelessly lose, to needlessly throw away. I couldn't waste time even if I wanted to. It kept coming back to me.

She made ready to dash across the pavement again when a tap on our shoulders made us both start up like a couple of jack-in-the-boxes.

"You ladies lost?" A deep voice asked.

We turned around and a very large, black man stood behind us, his arms barely crossed at the wrist because his muscles were so big and bulging. He wore a very tight black T-shirt that said SECURITY in white letters. We were busted.

I broke out in a sweat, but Lindy didn't panic.

"Why yes, we were dahlin. If you could be so kind as to show us where they're selling the T-shirts, I'd be forever in your debt."

But the security guard wasn't impressed by the blushing bell act.

"Yeah, I'll show you where it is," he said with a face like stone, "on the way out."

"Out?" Lindy tried to sound innocent. She wasn't very good at it.

The security guard didn't mess around, just took us both by the elbow and marched us across the pavement, till we got to the other side of the fence. People watched us go by like we had 'criminal' stamped on our foreheads. It was demeaning.

We walked by the T-shirt stand and Lindy wiggled free of his grip. He reached for her but she danced aside.

"Just a second," she said with injured dignity. "I want a T-shirt and then we'll go."

The big man snorted but let her have her way.
She took a few minutes deliberating and then selected one she liked, paid for it, and then held out her elbow to the guard.

"You may accompany us out now," she said haughtily.

I couldn't help it. I started to laugh.

When we hit the parking lot, he left, and we both busted out laughing. I laughed until I felt a stitch in my side.

After awhile, we both sighed, leaning against the parked cars in the green-scented darkness. She turned to me, her eyes glittering even without any light to bring out the deep emerald highlights in their depths.

"You know you have to take me home now," she said without a trace of flirtation. I was strangely thankful for that tone. I didn't want to think about motives or seductions. I wanted to just relax.

"Where do you live?" I asked her.

"I don't mean my home," she whispered.

So, what did I say to that?

Insane as it sounds to me now, her not-so-subtle seduction wasn't an instant turn on. There she was, 5'4 inches of pure temptation and she had just given me the green light. If I were any other person on the planet, I'd have been jumping for joy... jumping at her implied invitation... jumping on her. But I couldn't muster any enthusiasm for it.

My heart chose that moment to play hide-and-go-seek. I could feel the absolute absence of feeling like a freezing void in my chest. All of her numerous charms suddenly seemed like a terribly cruel farce. Why was she coming on so strong, I wondered? Why me?

Well, it's obvious, my fool brain concluded. The little Jezebel is playing games with you. She is not to be trusted.

Now, after thumbing desperately through these worn pages for another instance, I'm forced to acknowledge that she was the first to ever pursue me like that.

The truth hurts. She scared the hell out of me.

But I wasn't about to admit that to myself, especially standing there, looking down at her hopeful face. I called up my tough butch reserves and smirked, bluffing my way through the confusion and inner turmoil.

If she wanted to play games, well, at least I would only have to endure it for another few hours. Tomorrow morning she would be gone.

That thought made me feel even colder.

"Fine," I told her. "Let's go." And I turned and started walking toward my car.

I heard her trotting along behind me, my long-legged pace making it impossible for her to catch up. I just kept walking, dried grass crunching underfoot, the distant spotlights from the arena shedding just enough illumination for me to find my way. I didn't look back, didn't even acknowledge her presence until we reached my car.

I unlocked the door and slid into the drivers seat. A knock on the passenger side window made me turn my head. She was leaning down, peering in at me. The door handle jiggled.

"It's locked," she mouthed.

At that point, I had two choices. I could start the car and just speed off, leaving her there or I could unlock the door.

She smiled.
I unlocked the door.

We drove home in silence. I grimly concentrated on the rode, both hands clutching the wheel, while she leaned back, propping a foot on the dashboard. After a few moments of nothing but engine sounds and my belligerent refusal to talk, she switched on the radio and rolled down the window, humming to herself as her hand danced up and down, curving into the wind.

My house is a good thirty minutes from the arena. We had plenty of time to not talk to each other. The miles and the minutes rolled by until we reached my exit off of the interstate. I'd almost forgotten she was there, the background noise of her and the radio had blended with the hum of the tires on the road, lulling me into a brooding state.

I was thinking about the morning to come with a quiet dread, and not just because I was worried about the impending hangover. No, that pain was easy to deal with now. As soon as I woke up, I headed straight for the medicine cabinet and the magically refilled bottle of Tylenol. No, the pain I feared was much more subtle.

I wasn't sure how much longer I could stand waking up alone.

These thoughts and many more like them were rolling through my head when I felt her hand slip around my wrist, gently drawing it off of the steering wheel.

I started and swerved. The two right tires sprayed gravel all over the shoulder before I could get them safely back onto the road again.

"What the hell are you doing?" I yelled.

She was still holding my arm, peering down at my wrist. "That's what I thought," she said, looking up from her inspection of my watch, smiling as if I hadn't just screamed at her for almost killing us. "I believe this is the longest I've held my tongue ever, except when I'm sleeping, of course. It's pretty amazing. I think it might be a personal best. Unless you count that time when I was nine years old and me, mama and daddy were on vacation at Lake Oneonicka. I got so sick, the doctor had to come out to our cabin and do an emergency tonsilectomy right there on our kitchen table. I didn't talk for a week, then. And I tell you what, I couldn't eat at that table for months. My mama says she'd never seen a child that could flat out talk as much as I did."

She kept chattering. I gritted my teeth so hard my gums hurt.

Finally, I exploded.

"Look," I said, navigating my way through the late night traffic at breakneck speeds. The angrier I got, the harder my foot pushed down on the gas. "I'm am just about sick up to here with your little anecdotes. Do you never shut up? A person can't get a word in edgewise around you."

My outburst didn't seem to faze her one bit.

"You got somethin' you wanna to say, sugar?" she asked sweetly.

And then, I swear I don't know what made me do it. Maybe I just wanted to shock her into silence. Maybe I wanted to see if I could scare her off. I don't know what my true motives were.

I opened my mouth and the words started pouring out. I told her everything. Every twisted little detail of my ordeal was laid bare before her. Every syllable out of my mouth was like a volley of arrows directed at the enemy. I knew I couldn't fail to drive her away with the truth.

I kept my eyes trained straight ahead and kept talking and she listened without interruption until we turned into my driveway.

"Watch out for that cat!" she squealed. I slammed on the brakes. A little flash of white streaked across the lawn.
I pulled up the parking brake and dared a glance at her. She was clutching her heart with one hand and fanning herself with the other.

"I thought you were gonna drive right over that poor kitty," she whispered.

"Oh, I have," I replied, "a couple of times."

With that, I turned off the car, got out and walked into the house.

Only a few hours until she's gone, I thought as I jerked the t-shirt over my head and peeled off my jeans. I couldn't figure out why I was being so hostile. I didn't even know why I was showering, leaving a total stranger free to wander through my house. But it felt good; the hot water pelting my face washed away some of my anxiety. I was even able to unclench my teeth.

I toweled off and then, with shaking hands, wiped the steamy mirror. I wanted to see if I looked as dazed and angry as I felt.

Dark, haunted circles ringed my eyes. My mouth looked pinched, my cheekbones too pronounced. I definitely was not my usual cocky self.

I pointed an accusing finger at the mirror. "At this very moment, a very mental southern bell is loose in your house, probably poking into all your drawers, looking through all your private things. She could be Single White Female Pt 6."

"She is cute, though," the woman in the mirror countered. "And sorta funny, in an offbeat kinda way."

"Yes, but she's obviously looney tunes," I argued, "and after your little narrative in the car, she probably thinks you are too."

"She did seem to take it well, though. She didn't laugh or threaten to cart you off to a padded room."

My reflection had a point. She didn't laugh. She didn't show any emotion whatsoever. I didn't know whether to be relieved or worried.

"You big coward," I grumbled as mist quickly swallowed up the demoralized likeness of the girl I used to be. I wiped the mirror off and made my point. "Admit it. You're afraid to leave this room."

It was true. Crazy or sane, she was out there, waiting for me to emerge. I sighed, clouding up the mirror again. Before I lost my nerve, I raked my fingers through my tangled wet hair, secured the towel around my nakedness, and opened the bathroom door. Steam sucked out into the cool air of the darkened hall. Wood floorboards creaked as I took a step forward. I darted a look around, and then scuttled furtively down the hall to my bedroom.

I should have known she would be there.

I saw her shoes and socks first, lying abandoned in the middle of the floor. And then, a few paces from that, her sweatshirt and jeans. I gulped, uncomfortably aware that the towel covering me was too small and my legs too long. A cold rivulet of water dripped from my hair and trailed down my spine. I shivered and let my eyes follow the clothes trail to its conclusion.

She sat on my bed in the midst of tangled sheets and discarded dirty clothes, knees drawn up under her chin, cute little toes curling over the edge of the bed. Grass green eyes regarded me calmly, half-lidded and serious. I don't think I've ever had a more beautiful woman in my bed before. She wore only a tank top but it didn't take any imagination to guess what she'd look like without it.

I wondered what she was thinking, but her eyes certainly weren't giving anything away. Hell, I didn't even know what I was thinking. My throat closed up. Tingly prickles shot up and down my arms and my heart felt like a tight fist. I could hardly breathe. Funny to think that getting turned on feels exactly like a heart attack to me.

I couldn't believe she was here. I couldn't believe I'd told her everything.
She blinked a few times and then raised her chin from her knees.

"I hope you don't mind but I made myself welcome." She pointed at a plate containing the remains of a sandwich sitting on the nightstand next to the bed.

"No, I don't mind," I said in a choked voice. My throat felt like I'd been gargling sand.

"I didn't mean the snack, honey," she drawled. I looked again. My journal was right next to the plate.

Panic and desire converged like a head on collision. Hot and cold. Frozen and boiling. All smashed together, sharp edges tearing into my calm facade.

"Tell me you didn't read that," I said, but the odd excited expression on her face told me she had. Her eyes were wide and an eloquent smile played across her lips. She gave a low chuckle and then shook her head. Her smile made me want to scream.

I tried looking everywhere but at her face, afraid that maybe, just this once, my eyes really would shoot daggers and commit actual homicide. She's going to say something smart-assed and I'll have to kill her, I thought. Finally, after several long, deep breaths I could feel all the way down to my toes, I met her bemused gaze.

"What is the matter with you?" I said in what my friends have termed the "Terminator" voice. "I'm not getting this whole scenario. What kind of person just goes home with someone they barely know and then casually reads that person's journal, my personal, private stuff. That's just not normal behavior. Something's not right with you."

My room was cloaked in shadows, thankfully. In daylight, it was bound to reveal the messier side of me. The blinds were slanted open, admitting thin bands of light that barred her face. Her mop of blonde hair, which was best described as artfully rumpled, looked almost white, as did her face. Like the sugarplum fairy in the Nutcracker, she glimmered pale and almost insubstantial.

"Oh I don't subscribe to normal, dahlin," she said, and then gave me the non-verbal equivalent of 'silly old thing'-sort of an eyebrow raise, hand swishing combo "That's something other people do. Not me."

She unwrapped her arms and leaned back. An unhurried, steady head-to-toe appraisal followed. I found myself tugging at my towel. "The real question," she said, "is, what do you plan on doin' about this little dilemma of yours?"

"I don't know," I admitted stiffly, dropping my eyes to the floor, grateful that the pages of my journal were wiped clean every morning. At least she hadn't seen the worst of it.

"What dya' mean you don't know?" she responded sharply. "You must have some idea why all this is happenin' to you."

"I have no idea why any of this is happening, okay?" I snapped back at her.

"Maybe you haven't thought hard enough." I glanced up. It was a mistake.

The sight of her, half reclining, one satiny, caramel colored leg stretched out against the snowy sheets punched a gaping whole in my defenses. All the anger leaked out of me. I felt wretched and exposed and completely at a loss as to how to protect myself from this assault on my self-control.

She was the kind of woman that looks pretty tempting when she's dressed, hair combed, make-up just so. But, bare faced, tousled and half-dressed, she exuded an almost overwhelming charisma. She was made to lounge around in tangled sheets, born to nestle against your arm and make pillow talk. I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to see her lips after a kiss, all swollen and rosy and ripe. This thought unleashed a thousand others. I could picture her wearing one of my shirts, puttering around the house barefoot on a Sunday morning or splayed across the kitchen table, breakfast forgotten, as we indulged in spicier fare. I could picture her all kinds of ways, in all kinds of situations. Most of my musings had that sunlit, hazy quality that contentment produces, the kind reserved for Christmas and summer vacations when you're a child.
This girl was dangerous, I decided. She was the embodiment of the ideal girlfriend fantasy. I wanted to be frightened by this, but I was too stunned. Just watching her soft mouth shape those lazy vowels had a hypnotizing effect that no amount of irritation could seem to shake.

"I knew a girl like you back in Louisiana," she was saying. I heard the musical, leisurely intonation of her words, but underneath that I was noticing a surprising intelligence, an observant and very tender whit that was beginning to charm. "Old Mabel Ponchartrain. That girl just loved to stay at home, watch her stories and do jigsaw puzzles all the day long. I tell you, that's all she ever talked about. 'Hope and Bo did this.' And 'Jake and Lucy did that.' I worried about that girl. I hated to see her cooped up in that house all the time. I used to say 'Mabel, honey, why don't you come dancing with us?' and she'd always tell me 'Y'all go on. I'll be fine."

She glanced at me sideways, and crossed her arms, a consummate storyteller hitting her groove. "Do you know what finally happened to Miss Mabel?"

I continued to stare, just barely shaking my head.

"Nothin'. Not a thing. Not ever. It was downright tragic. And then, wouldn't you know, one day, her cousin Garland found her dead of a heart attack lying across a half finished jigsaw picture of the Great Wall of China." She let out a windy sigh. "Now doesn't that just sound like a terrible waste?" She shook her head. "It just makes me wanna weep. And I tell you what, you make me wanna cry, too. You remind me of Miss Mabel. I can see it all. You've been living in the now your whole life, haven't you? No wonder you looked like a lost little puppy dog in that bathroom. No wonder those eyes of yours looked so faraway. You poor, poor thing."

"I don't even watch soap operas," I said, flushing all over. The spell was broken. Now the light around her seemed blue, arid… no warmth at all. I saw the lines at the corners of her eyes, the way her chin sagged just a little, the way she rolled her shoulders forward. These little details were just the ammunition I needed. She wasn't perfect. Suddenly, her concern struck me as peculiar, too extreme, like playing Mozart on a banjo. I knew it was just a bluff, a reason to not feel embarrassed. Might as well peel off the towel and let her have a good look. I couldn't get any more vulnerable. And then, mercifully, my anger returned. I gathered it to me like a shield. Crouching behind the ferocity of my embarrassment, I lashed out.

"This is fucking ridiculous! Do you have a cockeyed backwater bayou story for every damned situation under the sun? What is that all about?" I was just getting started. I warmed to the anger, letting it cleanse my thoughts. "I don't need your pity! I don't need anything from you! And what the hell do you think you know about me anyway? You read my damned journal and now you're the authority on all things Natalie? Shit! You don't know me! You have no idea what I'm going through, okay! I know what you're implying. I am not imagining this stuff. It's really happening. This day is on rewind. I am not crazy. You're crazier than I'll ever be."

"My, my, you're a testy thing, aren't you?" she said, fanning herself in mock horror.

I glared back at her. "Yes. Yes, I am. And four out of five ex-girlfriends surveyed would agree." We stared at each other for a few moments. "I'll call you a cab," I said.

She didn't reply, didn't even bat her long eyelashes. She just got up from the bed, wrapping the sheet around her and stood facing me, her arms clasped behind her back.

"You know, my momma used to have a Siamese cat that would look at me the same way you're looking at me right now. It even had the same cool blue eyes as you. That thing was mean. It used to hiss and spit whenever anybody came near it. Lord, I hated that cat. It would leave these big ol' scratches down my arm. Nobody ever went near it but my mama. She was the only one that could pick it up without getting massacred. Well, one day that cat went and bit me. I ran and told my momma, thinkin' she'd finally get rid of it. But she said to me, 'Lindy dahlin, Boo's just as sweet as can be. All ya gotta do is sneak up on her, real quiet like, scoop her up and shower her with affection before she has a chance to act ornery. You'll see."

While she spoke, I stared, mesmerized by the susurrus rasp of cotton trailing the floor as she approached. Her steps were slow and even, almost as if she were tiptoeing across the room, trying not to startle me.

"You're just like that cat," she whispered, her voice breathy and rhythmic and lilting. "You even move like one... skittish and graceful all at once. It's just beautiful the way you move."

At last, she stood right in front of me, face lifted so that the closet light illuminated it and left the rest of her in darkness, like a sweet, sliver of moon in a midnight sky. And then she tilted her head to the side and the light spilled down, a radiant waterfall washing over her shoulders, the smooth skin of her collarbone, and the high points of her breasts underneath the white cotton fabric. She tentatively raised her hand, it hung suspended in the air between us for a moment, like a conductor waiting to signal an orchestra, and then she reached for me. The moment swelled, like a blast of music in the quiet air, and I saw her face swimming closer, lips poised for a kiss.

I couldn't make myself close my eyes. I couldn't believe this was happening. I couldn't stop myself from leaning forward.

The pull of her, so close I could feel her breath fanning my face, was larger than anything I have ever felt. I swear the light around her seemed to expand as it folded between us, eclipsed by our two forms meeting and melding together. The sheet wrapped around her fell away. My towel tumbled to the floor, forgotten.

No barriers. No thought.

The light flared even brighter as my lips touched hers. For the briefest of moments, I understood exactly what destiny means, like the light of the stars, which isn't truly there until seen by earthly eyes. I could see my whole life, like beads on a string, events connecting, one after another until that moment. It was something so fragile, like a wire that holds us high over a chasm when we think we're really walking on solid ground.

The moment passed, engulfed by hunger and heat and need. I felt her hands slide down my back, feather light, and my senses found another strata to inhabit, a higher place where the air was thinner and I couldn't seem to keep my balance.

I think I was a little crazed. I drunkenly clutched at the thin fabric of her shirt with one hand and slid my other hand underneath. I closed my eyes and groaned, completely lost in the feel of her. She writhed beneath my hands until a rending sound made me realize I'd ripped the shirt right off of her.

I blinked, astonished. She looked down, shirt in shreds, her small, perfect breasts exposed, and let out a peal of laughter.

But the laughter slid away, like ice melting underneath the heat of my stare.

Deliberately holding my gaze, her face stark and serious, eyes glittering, she used both hands and tore what was left of her shirt, shrugging the ragged pieces off. God help me; just watching her set off an erotic pulse, it's epicenter throbbing and rippling outward. My legs trembled in response.

I can't truly describe how beautiful she seemed to me, a perfect juxtaposition of strength and fragility, muscular arms and thighs combined with a waist so tiny I could encompass it with both hands.

She moved closer. I let out a strangled cry as her skin brushed against mine. Hardened nipples grazed my abdomen. Arms wrapped around my waist. I let out a ragged sigh. Her head nestled just below my chin. I inhaled the smoky, cinnamon scent of her hair, breathing even harder as her tongue traced delicate arabesques on my skin. And then, lips clamped around my nipple with sweet, warm suction and I almost lost all control.

Our knees buckled in unison. A moan rumbled through us. I couldn't tell who had originated it and it didn't matter. We sank to the floor, a tangle of grasping hands, limbs intertwined.

"Oh honey, I knew you'd feel this good. I just knew it," she mumbled, lifting her head. She smiled, a heady exultant grin that caused a delicious ache to blossom deep within. I reached out, pulling her face to me, capturing those smiling lips with mine. My tongue slid into her mouth and she moaned, sucking in a tiny breath, and then letting out a gentle "ah." which echoed in my throat.

And with that tiny sound, something inside me snapped, took control. We were lying face-to-face but I pulled her to me and then rolled until she was underneath me. I stopped the feverish exploration of her hands, taking them in mine and then pinning them over her head.
She looked up at me, eyes wide, pupils nearly swallowing the emerald green whole. Breathing heavily, she seemed to understand the silent proposal I was making. Squeezing her eyes shut, she half-sighed, half-moaned, her hips thrusting upward to grind against me, a tacit agreement. It was all I needed.

I slid down the length of her, relishing the friction of my breasts against her smooth skin. I ghosted kisses across her flat stomach. She quivered, her skin turning to gooseflesh, her hands in my hair.

Moving lower, my fingers dipped under the silky fabric of her panties and eased them down. She lifted her hips to help me and I caught the scent of her.

Patience, I told myself, but my self-control was tenuous.

I slipped my hand between her legs and parted them, settling between them with reverential awe. I was meant to taste her. I knew that with all of my being. The knowledge vibrated through me, setting all my nerve endings on fire.

I sank into her, learning her with my tongue, my mouth. Every cry, every shiver, every spasm that traveled through her began with me, and I felt them as if they were my own, like a circuit of pleasure that could only be broken when I chose.

I took my time, though I wanted to ravage her, take her quickly, hear her pant and yell as I thrust inside her. I wanted to croon and sing, finding that moment with her. But I wanted more than just my own pleasure. I wanted to go beyond just one moment. I wanted her to remember me, though she was surely destined to forget.

My body fought to betray this careful impulse. Hurry, it screamed. My heart beat so fast I could feel the pulse of it in my fingertips, in the tender flesh on the backs of my knees.

She moaned and whimpered, hips twisting, stomach muscles flexing, breaths becoming more shallow and rapid.

Still I lingered, filled with wonder, her body resonating to my touch.

She cried out. I think she said my name.

I slowed my pace. I thought I could hear the ocean, though it was just the blood roaring in my ears.

Not yet.

She was so very wet. Without stopping my rapt explorations, I reached out and stroked a soft, heaving breast, savoring the way it fit almost perfectly in my hand. With the other hand, I traced the smooth, silky flesh of her inner thigh.

"God! Oh please!" she begged.

But I couldn't make myself give what she so obviously needed. I did not want it to stop.

In a few hours she would be gone and this night would be wiped away as if it had never been. My mind shied away from the thought. Unbearable to think that she would see me again and walk past me as if my mouth had never been here, as if my kisses hadn't been strong enough to brand, to burn my image in her mind.

Insistent hands were tangled in my hair. Hips bucked. Hoarse cries were ripped from a dry throat.

My whole body throbbed in sympathy. Now, it said and I couldn't ignore it.

Quickly and without preamble, I slid two fingers inside her. Her response was immediate and urgent. She uttered a tender, wordless cry as the convulsive heat of her surrounded me, pleasure rippling through her and into me until finally the circuit faded and was broken. Her breathing slowed and the tremors subsided. Limbs went from rigid to slack.

I closed my eyes, leaned my head on her leg and sighed.

Warm and heavy and spent, I remained like that for some time, not moving, barely breathing. Waves of contentment, sweet and peaceful, broke over me. I could picture it, like waves lapping an empty beach.
Sense of drifting... sleep near... but no, something nagging, a sharp thought, like a jagged piece of glass jutting out of the smooth sand.

I opened my eyes and drew in a quick, startled breath.

I couldn't sleep. Not yet. Sleep was bad. Sleep meant starting over again.

I glanced up and across the expanse of glistening skin to the rumpled blonde head lolling sleepily to one side. Her chest rose and fell.

She was asleep. Or so I thought. I stared hard, willing her awake.

She opened an eye, and lifted her head a little. A slow grin spread across her face. She held out her hand.

"Come here, you."

I obeyed, crawling over her outstretched legs to lie alongside her. She rolled over on her side, one arm curled up under her chin, the other propping up her head. She gave me a satiated, drowsy smile. I could see that she wanted to snuggle, to sleep. I didn't inch closer, though her whole body invited me in.

When I didn't move, she arched an eyebrow in question.

"You look cold," I said, sitting up suddenly. I rolled to the side and grabbed the sheet left discarded near me, and stood.

I walked to the bed, making a show of clearing off all the clothes left littered on top of the blanket. I did a poor job of it. My hands were shaking too much to fold anything really.

Once this was done, I pulled the blanket off and a pillow and brought both to her. She took them from me and set them carefully aside. Naked, stretched out in all her sultry glory, she might have been a pampered courtesan reclining on satin pillows, and not just a one night stand sprawled on my dirty laundry.

"I could sleep for a million years," she sighed, stretching arms and legs until her back arched. A faint jet of lust fanned the fire still smoldering in me. I still wanted her, wanted more.

I cleared my throat noisily, pulling the sheet up around my shoulders.

"I'm not tired," I lied, though my face ached from suppressing a yawn. She sat up and studied me. The corners of her mouth turned down. "Are you thirsty?" I asked quickly. "Water. I could get you some water. You know, if you want some?"

"I don't want water." So earnest, not an ounce of flirtation there, just pure need.

Behind her, on a bookshelf, the green LED glow of my alarm clock said 11:41. Panic made my fingers go numb. Would she disappear at midnight like Cinderella's slipper? Why did I care? In nineteen minutes would I be alone? Again?

I didn't realize I was hyperventilating until I felt her next to me, on her knees, arms winding around my shoulders, pulling me closer. She brushed back my hair and then leaned in to place a light kiss on the back of my neck. I turned my head to look at her.

The faces of strangers often frighten me and not just because they are oddly shaped or aesthetically displeasing. Have you ever just walked through a crowd, looked in the face of some stranger and automatically felt a part of yourself shrink away? Well, that happens to me a lot. I think it's just that so many people aren't really there. The sour expression on the bank teller's face, the empty look of the lady sitting across from you in traffic, the sallow, frowning old man shuffling ahead of you at the mall, I can't picture them, at any time in their lives, alight with pleasure, happy, animated. The pallid, vacant mask is too firmly fixed. It's everything your mother said would happen. "If you make that face too long, it'll stay that way." Stress and pain have stretched the skin so tight the nerves and sinews have forgotten how to smile.

But her face... oh, her face never forgot. It looked as if it had never been touched by life, like Bambi before his mother gets shot by the hunters. It was so painfully fresh, so open, and at that moment, so tender and sweet.

I wanted to weep.

Instead I kissed her.

Deep and slow. I could feel that circuit thrumming to life, flickering, seeking that connection. But she drew back, breathless and smiling, hair askew and drooping into her eyes. She pushed the unruly strands back and the smile faded.

"Don't cry, darlin." I didn't know that I was until she spoke.

It was 11:46.

I reached for her, frantic that the slippery minutes were gliding by, elusive and inevitable, but the space between us grew wider and her smile teased. In one quick and sinuous movement, she stood and stepped back, pale and perfect and as smooth as marble in the shadows. I could feel that connection inside still searching, could almost imagine the blue, crackling tendrils of light between us. Looking down on me, she grinned, green eyes coy, aware of the absolute power she held over me.

"Not so fast there, honey," she purred. "My turn now. And I know just how to cheer you up."

"You don't understand," I said, reaching again, ashamed that I couldn't hide the blatant need in my voice. "There's no time. Please..."

A slim eyebrow lifted; full lips smirked; and inside my head, the sounds she'd made before reverberated, like an echo that triggers an avalanche.

My hands started to shake.

"Honey, I'm not going anywhere," she murmured, voice again sincere, but edged with playfulness. "And we've got nothin but time."

I sighed, looked at the clock, and then scrubbed my forehead in frustration. Another minute gone. I'm not going to beg, I told myself. But the words spill out anyway.

"But we don't! We don't have any time. Minutes. Seconds. That's all. Please... Please... just... God, don't you get it? I tried to tell you! I tried to explain!"

My gestures were too expansive, almost manic. She abandoned the temptress routine and knelt in front of me, cupping her hands over mine.

And if we were a statue in the Louvre, I think, they'd call us 'Praying for Time.'

I know I'm losing it.

She started to croon and hushed me, saying "It's okay, darlin. It's okay," over and over, rocking me like the baby that I am. Her hands stroked my hair so very gently, as if she were afraid I would break. And then they fluttered down, light as butterfly wings caressing my skin until I was dizzy and panting for something more substantial.

The chasm yawned underneath me and the wire that I walked twitches but I closed my eyes. There is a tomorrow, I tell myself. Just pretend.

The feathery touch brushed my stomach, whimsically traced the line of the pelvic bone, skimmed through damp curls and then hovered there, until my breaths were staggered and I could barely edge out the word.

"Please."
"Open your eyes," she whispered. I did. Her arm slid around my waist, holding me up as surely as the solemn, intense gaze locked to mine. "Don't look away no matter what," she commanded as I felt her fingers slide lower and then slip inside, light and teasing and insistent.

Not nearly enough. I press forward, moving with her.

"God, you feel sooo good," she said in a husky whisper, never ceasing the slow, torturous rythmn of her fingers. I couldn't stop the movement of my hips, couldn't do anything but let my body respond. I wanted to close my eyes, clench them as tight as the muscles inside, but her eyes wouldn't release me.

I clung to her, though she seemed so slender, almost birdlike. But her eyes were fierce and strong, drinking in every expression that crossed my face. Her hand slid from my waist to cradle my head as I arched back.

"That's right," she whispered as I moaned. "God, every inch of you is velvet. I love to touch you. I love that you seem so rough and yet feel so soft."

The throaty sound of her voice was maddening.

"I want to watch you come," she breathed, suddenly quickening the pace, fingers swirling and exploring, deep and steady. Overwhelmed by sensation, nerve endings surging with pleasure, breath hiccuping, body taut and trembling, I felt as if I was dissolving slowly into her eyes, into warmth, into undulating waves of sweetness, only to feel a final ecstatic jolt as she withdrew and I collapsed against her and sighed.

I closed my eyes, watching the colors swim against the blackness of my eyelids. After my heartbeats gentled and the colors faded, I opened them again.

The first thing I saw was the clock behind her.

It said 11:59.

Seeing the stricken look on my face, she turned her head, looked at the clock and then back at me.

And then, before I had a chance to reach out, to take her in my arms, to tell her how much our time together had meant to me, the glowing green numbers rolled forward to 12:00.

I gasped.

And nothing happened.

No cosmic pyrotechnics. No sudden gust of wind whisked her up and away as time rewound to start fresh again. She didn't fade, arms raised in helpless supplication before she finally became invisible, only bits of fairy dust glimmering where she had stood. The air didn't split apart and swallow her whole or go all shimmery like a bad dream sequence on television.

Instead she reached out, curled a hand around my neck and pulled me to her, kissing me so hard there was an audible 'smack' as our mouths parted and she let me go.

"Hot damn!" she yelled, grinning and slapping her knee. "I knew it! I just knew it!"

"But... but you're... you're still here," I stammered, gasping, lips still swollen from her kiss.

She threw back her head and laughed. "And you are too, Sugar. Ain't that something?"

"But... how?" I couldn't resist the urge to touch her. She was real, solid and warm, not at all something my warped brain had produced to reward my insanity.

She patted my hand. "Well, the way I figure it, the how isn't that important. It's the why that you should be wondering about."
Stunned, I could only nod. I could feel my whole body unclenching, as if I'd been waiting for a punch in the stomach that never came.

She made a prompting motion with her hands. "Here's where you ask me why, dahlin."

"Okay... why?"

The coy expression returned. "Well I'd be delighted to tell you, Sugar; thanks for asking. It's an interesting story, really."

"Oh, no," I said, as she reached for the discarded Melissa T-shirt and pulled it over her head. Her eyes had a wicked glimmer. I was starting to recognize that the sweet but devilish grin I had thought so sexy might not always be a good thing. "No, no, no... Not another convoluted tale about you or your freaky relatives. Gimme facts. I'm already more confused than I ever thought possible."

But she wasn't going to forgo the pleasure of a long and involved explanation. "Don't tell me you didn't wonder why I invited myself home with you? I may be easy, but I'm not that easy. Granted, I wanted to come home with you, have wanted to for a long time now, but it was also part of my plan."

"Plan? You had a plan?" Single White Female Part Six may not have been too far off the mark, I thought suddenly.

"I know I should have told you," she said, looking a bit sheepish. "I should have said something. I just couldn't prove anything. I didn't want to get your hopes up, dahlin." She reached out, stroked my hair and my anxiety just disappeared. "You'll forgive me, won't you?" she asked uneasily, eyes going wide.

And I caved instantly. This was a bad, bad sign.

"Of course I will, but forgive you for what? I don't understand."

"Yes you do, dahlin." I stared at her, uncomprehending. "What?" she said. "You didn't think you were the only one whose day was repeating, did you?"

My jaw dropped and I started to sputter, but she chattered on.

"After the first day happened again, I had a feeling something wasn't right. Jezebel was acting all funny."

I had to interrupt. "Jezebel?"

"She's my baby."

My shock must have shown.

"She's a Pekingnese," she said. I breathed again.

"Well, then after the third day, I figured I had to do something about it. I wasn't going to just sit around waiting for the world to end. I started to hypothesize."

I quirked an eyebrow at her.

"It's my job," she said haughtily. "I'm a market analyst. I make a living watching the stock market for quirks. That's what I call them... you know, tiny variables that hint at big changes to come. So, when I found myself in this mess, I just applied the same ideas I use at work. It was easy really."

"Wait a second. Easy?" I shook myself like a wet dog. My head still felt a little fuzzy, the aftershock of too much information and stimulation in too short a time. "I'm still not getting all of this. You're telling me that you wake up every morning and it's the same morning for you, too? I mean, your September 30th's are in the multiples now?"

"Well yes, that's what I said, honey." She leaned closer and patted my hand gently and then picked up the thread of her thoughts again. "It threw me a little bit at first, all this deja vu. I was fixing to do something drastic. I got so depressed, you wouldn't believe. I could write some good country music about it, let me tell you. But then I thought, 'Lindy, your mama taught you better than that. You can't let yourself just sit back and wallow in it.' So, after thinking about the whole business for awhile, I figured the best place to start looking for the solution was that concert. That place was just slap full of variables. So I went. I tell you what, I musta spent weeks just watching people, taking it all in. It was exhausting."

Her head tilted to one side and I could see how absolutely absorbed she had become in her story. She absently tucked a bit of hair back behind her ear. It was a graceful gesture, as were all of her movements and I found myself distracted from what she was telling me. It was important, but more so was to see her, to know that she was really there and that she wasn't going to disappear.

"But then I started to notice a pattern. It was subtle. At first I thought I might be imagining things. But after keeping my eye on it awhile, I'll be damned if I wasn't right. You see, I started noticing little changes, people acting funny, differently than they had before, small stuff that happened seemingly at random."

She glanced up at me and winked. And then, too late, I saw the trap that had been set, the unavoidable snare that fate had waited for me to step into. This fascination I had for her was like a very fine but strong net that had been cast over me. Or better yet, like a steel trap with sharp, biting teeth that could only be retracted with misery and pain. I had no defense against it. If I struggled, I'd only become even more entangled. I'd been trapped before and I knew that the only escape was gnawing off a piece of my own heart. Did I really want to go through that again? Anxiety set in, but was quickly dispelled by the sound of her voice. I didn't want to escape, didn't care if I was doomed. I was well and truly caught

"The first step," she said, "was to find something to gauge the changes, a constant. It took some doing but I found them. Every night, like clockwork, I'd see this set of women just a falling all over themselves, spilling beer, as drunk as teamsters on an election day, but the next night they'd be dumping their drinks somewhere else. There were other signs too. People behaving differently than they had on the nights prior, all without explanation. I couldn't account for it... until you strolled into that bathroom."

"And you threw up all over me."

She had the grace to blush.

"Yes. I do apologize for that. I have that unfortunate allergy. But that was the key. When you didn't come back the next night, or the night after that, I knew you had to be the variable I was looking for. I started following you, watching what you did."

"You followed... what do you mean watching? Like taking notes and stuff?"

"Exactly... purely research of course. It was grueling, let me tell you, stalking your gorgeous self night and day. I didn't enjoy a second of it, I promise." The devilish grin told me otherwise. "By the way, you're cute when you're angry, anyone ever tell you that? And you're angry alot, aren't you? It's okay, dahlin. I don't mind a bit. You can snarl at me anytime."

Now I was the one blushing. Plus, I was getting very turned on by the crisp and businesslike tone of her voice. Eyes glazed over and a small nostalgic smile lifted the corners of her mouth. She had enjoyed getting stuck in time, I realized. It had been a juicy problem for her to solve and she had relished it. I could see behind the lazy dialect lurked a very keen mind and I wanted to ravish her all over again.

"While I was appreciating all your charms," she continued. "I also saw that wherever you went, change occurred. People would stay within the same pattern night after night, unless you interacted with them. Only then would the pattern fragment. After that, I just had to figure out if you were aware of the changes you caused or if it was all just coincidence."

"And?" I said, forgetting for a second that I was a part of the story.

"And I arranged it so that we would meet."

"You threw up on purpose?"

"Strictly speaking, no, not on purpose. But it got your attention didn't it?"
"So you're saying you set out to seduce me?"

"You make that sound like it's a bad thing. I got you to tomorrow didn't I?"

"No... But... well, yes. It is a bad thing. You don't really know me. I don't know you... You're here with me... Was all this just part of your plan?"

"You silly goose! You think I don't know you? Oh Honey, I got your number. I know exactly who you are. If the world was ending, everybody else would be crying and hugging their mothers or their babies or their sweethearts and saying their final goodbyes. You think you'll be the one checking your watch, tapping your foot and saying 'Lets get this shit over with.' Dahlin, I know all about you. I have for awhile now."

That was too close to home. I bristled. "Stunning insight. You haven't answered my question."

Her face went neutral and she pulled back, grabbing her knees and hugging them to her. Something told me my cynicism had wounded her. I wanted to kick myself.

"I think you know the answer already," she whispered.

And I did know.

I had enough sense left in me to stop talking, to follow the instinct that told me to just hold her and accept. It felt good, natural and right to have her in my arms. We didn't speak, but even that felt comfortable. A short while later, she fell asleep like that, on the floor with me curled protectively around her, her head nestled in the crook of my arm.

I fought sleep for the longest time, fearing in my heart that once I closed my eyes things would change back again, that some cruel joke might snatch her from my grasp and make all of this just a dream. Was her hypothesis correct? Did I dare believe that having her here with me would change things? I wanted to with all my heart.

Carefully, I extracted my arm from under her, slipped the pillow under her head and covered her with the blanket. Retrieving my journal from the nightstand, I decided to do just what I'm doing, to write it all down in exact detail, so that maybe, if this were all true and tomorrow had at last come, I would not ever forget the way I feel right now, almost peaceful for the first time in my life. I don't want to forget.

Even if she is gone in the morning and I wake up with empty arms, I will not forget. I will find her and make her remember, too. I don't have a choice.

I love her.

The clock now reads 4:00 a.m. I'm so tired. I will roll the dice and sleep now and pray that tomorrow really has come.

OCTOBER 1ST
Journal Entry

8:45 am: My house is not very big. It's the old saltbox style home with four moderately sized rooms divided by a slender hallway. A few closets, a bathroom, an attic and a tiny cellar make up the extra bits. It's really not a lot of ground to cover. But this morning, it seemed like acres. Enormous.

It's back to its original proportions now and feeling very homey. I can smell bacon and coffee. I just want to write down everything before I forget.

I remember cracking open an eyelid, uncertainty drawing me into full wakefulness. I could say that I somehow felt the schismatic shift of time in my subconscious, but that would be a lie and what's the use in lying to a journal?

I don't know what woke me. I'm not sure what caused the sudden tension that made my muscles seize up and my eyes open in expectation. All I know is that I felt a sick anticipation and then it hit me.

My head was clear. No pain. No hangover-type agony piercing my brain like nauseating flashes of lightning. And this was a stupendous thing, this change. I reached for my journal, a learned reaction, and realized it wasn't there. I sat up, feeling a slight ache in my side.

What the hell am I doing on the floor, I wondered.

Lavender light seeped through the chinks in the blinds and slowly crept across the cluttered floor. Two things were readily apparent. I was, for all intents and purposes, naked and more alarmingly, alone.

A moment of terrible clarity followed that my sleep-muddled brain rejected in a blind panic. I was on my feet and down the hall before I really remembered the naked part. I turned around and darted back into the bedroom, snatching some clothes from the floor at random and jerking them on.

I tore down the hallway to the bathroom, ripping aside the shower curtain, peeking behind the door. No one there.

I sprinted to the living room and began to toss sofa cushions around as if what I was searching for could possibly slip through the tiny crevices and hide from sight.

Nobody in the closets or the basement.

Don't think about it. Just keep looking. Try the kitchen.

In my haste, I skidded across the slippery kitchen tiles and tripped, landing with a painful thud on my knees in front of the sink.

Panting and clutching the kitchen counter for support after my mad dash through the house, I pulled myself to my feet and closed my eyes. Her face instantly filled the black void and I swallowed a sob.

I would not cry about this, I told myself. This is hysteria talking. Be rational. Find out what day it is. That's the important thing.

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. And then I saw it, there on the floor by the back door, the sheet from my bed.

That hadn't been there in any of my yesterdays.

I think I may have vaulted the counter in my eagerness to get to the door. I'm kind of proud of that, actually. In any case, I can only remember seeing the sheet in one instant and feeling my hand close over the doorknob the next. I turned it and yanked the door open, feeling the cool, damp morning air wash over me as I stepped outside.

If not for the black concert t-shirt emblazoned with Melissa's face and the small clouds of breath wreathing her head, she could have been an exquisite piece of garden statuary. (Sylph at Peace with the Dawn, maybe or something equally as esoteric and nonsensical.)

My garden looked alien to me, romantic and mysterious in the dull, gray light. Trees, black branches tangled together as they reached for the sky, provided the perfect foil for her, pale and small. They towered over her like strange giants whispering secrets to her. An errant breeze fluttered through scant leaves on the skeletal branches.

Preternaturally still, she stared up at the sky, heedless of the cold, tousled head tilted to one side, deep in contemplation.

I hated to speak, to break the silence, but I was so relieved. My elation was too great. I couldn't contain it, no matter how awkward I felt.

"There you are," I said, words dropping into the air like rocks thrown into a calm pool. I imagined them rippling outward until they reached her.

Her shoulders dropped a fraction and her head went straight. She didn't turn.
"C'mere," she whispered.

I tiptoed to her side, feeling large and cumbersome standing next to her. She was so small, like a child. I hadn't realized how tiny she seemed until that moment. I looked down and saw her upturned face, eyes wide and bright, a contented smile on her pale lips. Her skin was covered in gooseflesh and she shivered, shifting from one bare foot to the other in an effort to warm herself. But she seemed to enjoy the sensation, looking more excited every moment.

"What is it?" I asked, straining to pick out what she was seeing in the distance.

"The sun is rising. Can you see it through the trees? It's so beautiful!" She pointed excitedly to a faint glimmer separating itself from the opalescent blur of the skyline.

She spared a glance for me and I decided then that the brilliance of then sun would be redundant. I was bathed in her radiance. For the first time, I could feel my heart, heavy and solid in my chest and it felt right, permanent, not as ephemeral, fragile, and imminently breakable as it used to be. Overnight it had been remade, molded into something beautiful and indestructible, fired just by her presence. I sighed. It was an admission, showing her that my guard was down, that I understood.

She smiled.

"It's a new day," she said, shivering so hard her teeth chattered.

I reached for her, folding myself around her, hands wrapped around her slender waist.

"That's much better," she murmured, leaning her head back to rest on my chest. The sun rose with languorous indifference, spreading like melted butter across the slate-colored sky. The trees glistened, slowly gaining back some of their green. I felt a chill pass through her.

"You should have put some more clothes on before you came out here," I chastised, feeling suddenly very protective and very tongue-tied all at once.

"You're not exactly dressed either, dahlin," she chuckled. I looked down. I was wearing bike shorts and a tweed blazer that was hanging open rather conspicuously. I made a move to pull it closed.

"Don't you dare," she said, turning to face me. I saw hunger sharpen her features as she looked at me, greedily taking in the effects of the cold on my bare skin. A playful smile curled across her lips. "Let the neighbors talk. We need to celebrate." She leaned down and placed a long and deliberately teasing kiss on my right breast. I sucked in a sharp breath, pleasure shooting right down the center of me. My knees turned to water.

"And... uh... what are we celebrating?" I asked.

"Everything. Absolutely everything. Oh dahlin, does it really matter?"

And with that, she took my hand and led me inside. For hours we didn't speak, sating our mutual craving for each other. I could not get enough of her sighs, her moans, the feel of her, the taste of her. At last, we were lying on my bed, side by side, facing each other, half-dazed. I wasn't even aware of the passage of time until the phone rang and the loud click of the answering machine followed.

"Hi there. It's Mitchell. Yeah, we were just wondering if you were going to come in today. It's crunch time. Yeah, month ends. We could really use your help. So yeah, please give us a call and let us know when we can expect you. That'd be great. Okay then, bye."

It was a verbal wallop, a literal wake up call. I sat straight up, my stomach suddenly in knots. Good grief, the real world was back!

"I have a job," I told her frantically, jumping out of bed. "I have to start working again! And, dear God, I still have a girlfriend." She gave me a sharp look. "Well, we broke up, a couple of times. She just doesn't remember any of them. I have to go do it again, make it official."

"Please do," she said wryly.

The enormity of all that we'd been through was suddenly eclipsed by the mundane. I was still the same old me, back in my old life. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

I felt my knees go wobbly again.

"Do you realize time stopped just so we could meet?" I said in a small voice. "I mean, that's a lot of pressure, don't you think? What if this doesn't work out? What if..."

She swatted my arm. "You worry too much, sugar. Live a little. No, live big. It feels better."

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, stood and stretched. "Let's start this day off right, shall we?" she drawled. She stood on tiptoe and threw her arms around my neck, smiling in that mysterious and seductive way of hers. "So, how do you like your eggs?"

THE END

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

AngelRad's Fiction

Dreamcatching