And then he was looking at her again, as she moved toward him. Memory drowned in the sight of her body; the sagging breasts, the tightening nipples, the hips that undulated in a dance as old as the first woman, converging with the first man, on the day of the birth of human hunger.
And as they descended on the bed together, he only knew that it was all right. That the past was irrelevant, as irrelevant as the future, in the face of the moment itself.
It was only natural.
Now.
The first scream. Ten thick grooves, carving lengthwise down fleshy expanse. Jaws, clamping down. A hot spray. Muffled howl.
Taste of meat, raw and steaming. An audible tearing away. Head, whipping from side to side while its mouth bellows agony. Twists with rage. And attacks.
In the moment.
In the flow.
While the clock ticks off seconds that slice like razors into the soft parts that no claw could reach, no tooth impale, no casual glance reveal.
And the dark wet tendrils stream outward from the center of the bed…
Linda was gone when he awoke. It was better that way. It was hard enough to face his own wounds, in private. He didn't want to see what he had done.
She had left very few traces of herself behind. A bit of blood, on the bathroom floor. She was meticulous. He was glad. It meant that she still had her presence of mind; she would be okay; she would make it.
Of course, there was still the bed. There would always be the bed.
Later, after breakfast, he would definitely have to burn the sheets.
And put on clean ones.
For the next time.
THE VOICE
Rex Miller
I am Dallas's Ruler of the Night, the voice in the shadows, whispering of Stardust and moonglow and bossa nova rhythm.
The scratchy cut be-bops through the coda and the automatic cart-light flashes a five-second cue as I wait to perform. The engineer pots me up full as the red light blinks and the final note slides under my first words to the faithfuclass="underline"
"Cliffie Brown. Joy Spring." The hand behind the ear, old style. I smile up at the face on the other side of the double-paned glass. My engineer McVey punches up a spot and twangs into the studio intercom:
"I never heard of the cat."
"You never heard of the cat because he's dead. He was very young. He was the Ritchie Valens of the jazz trumpet."
I open the turntable well where we keep the ice bucket. About a third of the Thermos gone. Drinking on the air seems unthinkable to a civilian. But contrary to public image, air personalities are often paranoid, quivering skin-bags of insecurities, their professionalism measured not in behavior but in air sound and ratings. Drink, smoke, attack the receptionist if you must, but just make sure you sound great. Total control is our brand of semi-pro ball. I take the Beefeater's Express nightly. That's my ticket out there.
"Those sloppy esses are gettin' pretty sibilant, bro,"
McVey laughs. "One more Beefy-Weefy and it's the Robert McVey show!"
"Whatever it takes, we can handle it," I assure him. The Friends-and-Groupies line, or FAG line as we call it, lights up and I stab at the glowing button.
"Yellow."
"Yellow yourself." It's my lady. The Voice.
"Heeeeeyyyyy, you're just what I need right about now."
"It's nice to be needed," she breathes. This lady Patricia has a voice that would peel a banana.
"You could say that. Yes. Can you, ahh, hang on?"
"What should I hang on to?" she breathes into the other end of the phone. I just about shove my pen through the logbook.
I turn on the intercom. "Don't give me the mic," I tell McVey. "It's your show. You wanted it. You got it. Just don't play anything weird." I kill the monitor.
"You must have McVey tonight," she purrs. She knows everything about me by now. So many long talks into the wee hours. "You miss me any?" Her VOICE — my Lord! My arms are covered with chill bumps.
"Yeah." It's all I can do to speak. She can do that to me. I suppose she could do it to any man. She has the command of a professional singer or announcer or public speaker. She knows how to use her voice.
"I've missed you so much," I say. "I can't take much more of this. You know?"
"I know, I know." She chuckles deep in her sexy throat. We'd talked for weeks yet the time had never been right to meet. There was a problem. Patricia was married. A cruel, extremely wealthy and equally possessive man several years her senior. By her account, he had kept her all but a prisoner in her own home.
I knew where she lived. I'd driven past many a time, hoping for just a glimpse of her through the windows. I knew I was playing way out of my league, but you know how it is.
"I just can't take his suspicions and his behavior," she says. "I've only stayed with him because of the children."
"Listen," I say, doodling furiously on the back of the log, "are we going to get together or what? At least let's meet, just to say hi in person." She starts to speak and I keep going. "Please — let me at least come over and say hello — or meet me someplace for a quick drink. I'll be very discreet." There is the sound of Patricia taking a long, deep breath.
"Promise you won't stay long. You'd just — you know — come by and say hello, then you'd go. I'm willing to chance it, but you've got to promise me you'll never come over without my permission or call me or try to see me without us setting it up in advance."
"Sure."
"It isn't really fair to you. I just can't offer you much of anything in the way of a relationship."
"Let me worry about that, okay? We'll play it however you say. I just want to be with you. Okay?"
"Okay. It's not very smart of us. But I'm tired of being smart." We breathe at each other over Ma Bell's lines. "He's going to be leaving town Friday afternoon. But just for a few minutes — okay?"
"Yeah, okay, sure." I'd agree to anything. I'm starting to feel the Beefeater's. Full of the gin and the rush.
I know I never did such a pulled-together show in my life as I do the rest of that evening. The show just cooks for miles.
For an hour I go on like I invented radio. I suppose it's my love song to Patricia — my lady of the telephone.
The days blur and the time between now and Friday is gone and I'm off the air, driving through the city, and before I know it, I'm ringing the doorbell, and I hear a voice over another intercom, my life now one big intercom conversation.
"It's open." God, what a sexy sentence. It's open. It just knocks me down and runs over me. I want to go home and build a shrine to her. Light candles around her statue. Pray to Our Lady of the Perfect Tonsils.
I open the ornate door and step into Patricia's world of wealth and taste. I move down plushly carpeted stairs into the most beautiful room I've ever been in.
I am drawn toward that voice again, this time from a darkened corner of what appears to be a sunken conversation pit, and I look in the direction of that sexy voice and see her for the first time.
"Ummmmm, you're a big one," she says in that unmistakable, throaty contralto.
My heart is in my throat as I say, "Wow."
"Do I pass?" She is sitting in profile to me from where I am moving toward her, perched on a kind of throne chair like some actress on a movie set. A regal princess on a throne, she is shockingly beautiful. I'm talking fucking BEAUTIFUL. Movie star knockout gorgeous stone beautiful, Daddy.