The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author. If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher. In such case the author has not received any payment for this stripped book. Aftertaste Copyright 2012 Stephanie Lawton All rights reserved. ISBN-13: 978-1-61979-786-4 This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The copying, scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the authors rights is appreciated.

The first time was the worst. I woke up clutching sweat-soaked sheets and flipped on the light to make sure. It was so real, so pleasant, and then so very wrong and horrible. It was the night after I found her purple and pliant in her studio. When Id offered her help, shed curled into me like a kitten, then pinned me in place with a look and a desperate gesture. I shouldve walked away after that. I tried. But Im tired of walking away. Besides, she needed me. Id done nothing wrong. I still havent done anything wrong. Today, Im grateful for the birds racket outside my window, thankful that they interrupted the dream again, the one where Im a monster and I dont seem to care. I stretch my arms over my head, trying to shake off the earthy aftertaste of the nightmare, when the smell reminds me I still havent changed my sheets. God, what a slob Ive become. Its been, whatfour weeks? Five? Extra insurance, I guess, that I wont be bringing anyone up here. Especially not her. I pound on the wavy glass, and the birds scatter to the nearby rooftops. One fat loner remains on the brick windowsill. It cocks its head at me, issuing a challenge with its beady black eyes. Can I help you? It dips its head in response. Yeah, okay. Thanks for the wake-up. I owe you one. And now Im talking to birds. I pull on last nights pants, shuffle across the bare floorboards and down the hall to the bathroom. Theres nothing quite as satisfying as the first piss of the day. If nothing else goes my way all dayand it probably wontat least I can count on getting this right, this small satisfaction. Except that I had that dream again, and now I have to stare at the cause of most of my trouble.

But its just a piss. And it was just a dream. A cold shower should stop this forbidden onslaught. The ancient plumbing rattles to life, and water dribbles into the porcelain tub. I noticenot for the first timethat its big enough to easily accommodate two people. It would be perfect if she wanted I close my eyes and bang my forehead against the wall, but the images just come faster: long legs, long hair, long, graceful fingers traveling the length of my back, innocent lips gasping for air. My fingertips burn with remembered skin that isnt really remembered, just imagined. I hope it stays that way. I force the feelings down the rusty drain and grab a towel. Like my sheets, I have no idea when it was last washed. My duplicity stares me in the face. All these private things remain dingy and hidden while the outward trappings are spotless. For who? For her? Appearances are deceiving. The deception isnt intentional or malicious, just necessary. Steam collects on the peeling paint of the high ceiling. I add further insult by dripping water across the floor. Ive been meaning to sand and refinish it. There never seems to be time. Theres plenty of time for too much thinking, too much reflection, too much visiting old haunts and new impossible intrigues, but never enough time to invest in actually moving forward. It doesnt add up. A close inspection in the accordion shaving mirror reveals three gray hairs on my chin. One more than yesterday. Would they scare her? (They scare me.) Or would they fascinate her? Shed probably rub her thumb over them, testing, like she tests everything else. If this were my dreamand Im still in my head, after allshed brush her thumb over my lower lip, like Ive wanted.

No, thats not true. I havent wanted any of this. None of it was in the plan. Not the move, the next move, the dream nor the temptation. Not the guilt, the confusion nor the fatalistic expectation. For her, the nearly eleven years between us dont seem to be a difficulty. She has no idea of the consequences. Perhaps concrete evidence of time and experience would stop this prison camp train ride were on. A few well-placed strokes of the razor and the evidence is gone, at least until tomorrow. My face is smooth and clean, unlike my conscience. I run my fingers through my damp hair and think of her accusation: Do you know you always run your fingers through your hair when youre about to give in to something? Except its not true. I do it when the dream creeps unbidden into the daylight and I cant push it away or stuff it down. It doesnt fit in my head or my pocket, or even my closet or car trunk. These days, it seeps through the cracks in the floorboards, bubbles up between the piano keys. Sometimes, when shes very close, it escapes from my lungs and bathes her face. It merges with the sunlight, and it takes all my strength to distinguish dream from reality. Knowing the difference is the most important thing. Out in the hall, I listen to the house. It has its own repertoire of creaks and groans, its own filter for the cars and foot traffic outside. According to my trained ear, theres nothing out of place. I shuffle back to my bedroom and survey the damage. Pillows on the floor. Dirty clothes helter-skelter on the chair. Naked light bulb in the lamp. Empty bed. Always an empty bed. Inside the closet is a different me: formal, casual, business casual and work, all on hangers spaced an inch apart, each smelling like the fabric softener I measure out like an antidote. Its always been a habit, but it became a religion the day she buried her face in my shoulder and found solace there.

It certainly wasnt a conscious decision. I didnt set out to create this co-dependent catchtwenty-two, but now that the gears are running, theres no concrete reason to stop inertia. Its just fabric softener. I carefully select casual: khaki shorts, a polo shirt and leather belt. The coordinating loafers are in a boot tray by the front door. At some point, I have to go downstairs. It wouldnt be so bad on a regular day. She doesnt always cling to me like the dust on the baseboards. Really, I have more pressing issues to deal with, its just the mornings after the dream that leave me listing. I dont need Freud to explain it to me, and I certainly cant talk to anyone about it. Which is why the dream is so bothersome. Is it a prediction? I already know it will end badly. I cant see that Id ever willingly go down that path. Then why am I so reluctant to go downstairs? I hear my long-dead daddy: Man-up, son. I place a foot on the first riser and wait as the crack echoes through the house. Im barefoot. So was she when I last saw her. Barefoot, shaking and oddly endearing. I still dont fully understand her reasons, but I made sure she was safe. And later, warm. The sweat on my forehead makes a mockery of my chivalry. If Im being honest, I just wanted to make sure she was covered. Too bad that thin layer didnt shield me from the dream. At the bottom of the steps, I turn right, then right again into what passes as my kitchen. A cockroach skitters from behind a white drywall bucket and disappears into the heating grate. I find a clean mug in the cupboard and pour the first steaming cup of the day. I hear a noise in the next room and realize I cant put this off much longer. Its not a big deal, really. Ive already made the proper phone call and left the appropriate message. The car is in plain sight. No ones out looking, and I have nothing to be ashamed of. I didnt ask for this, didnt expect it, and didnt act on it. I just wish my subconscious would play along.

I take a deep breath, turn the corner, and there she is: Julianne. Long legs, long hair, long, graceful fingers twined in the sheet I draped over her after she crashed on my sad futon. Im still not clear on why she showed up at my place in the middle of the night, barely dressed and rambling an apology, but I couldnt turn her away. I dont have much to offer, but whatever she was looking for, she must have found it because next thing I know, shes curled up and purring in her sleep. I did take the liberty of tucking a strand of that flaming hair behind her ear. Maybe thats where the red (so much red) in the dream comes from. Maybe thats only what I tell myself. Im relieved to see shes the same as when I left hertousled curls, milky white skin that refuses to bow to the Alabama sun, and from all outward appearances, completely intact. Unharmed. Innocent. No red-purple pool on the sheet except for her hair. My breath catches as she presses it to her nose and inhales what I hopewhat I suspectfor her is the scent of safety. Ironic that she finds safety within these walls, in this neighborhood in this city. Everywhere I turn I see nothing but danger. But then, it follows me. Or rather, I carry it with me and project it outward as a scrim on lifes stage. Pessimistic? You would be too the day after having the dream Im forced to repeat. She opens one eye and smiles. My heart skips a beat at the same time my gut roils. I dont know what else to do, so I hand her the mug of coffee. Our fingers touch, and its exactly the same as the imagined skin from my dream. From now on, it will no longer be imagined, but remembered. I fumble for something to say. Everything looks better by the light of day. She finishes my sentence, the one I borrowed from my uncle, her surrogate grandfather.

I hope were both right. I tell her I called her folks to let them know shes fine. I dont tell her how badly my hands shook as I dialed. Does she even know how ironichow dangerousthis is? Thanks. But I doubt anyone noticed. Trust me, theyve got other things on their minds. Their pain-in-the-butt daughter is pretty far down the list. Her self-deprecating comments always catch me off guard. Its bad manners to not contradict her. And yet, shes right. Ive seen the way her family operates. Her second-class status and constant doubts are part of what draw me to her. Were alike that way. I take a chance and motion for her to move over. She pulls back the sheet and I wish I hadnt. Quickly, so I wont pick up the scent, I turn my head. But its too late. The delicate notes of her soap and skin assail me, inflame my already rapid pulse. I stare at the floor. The white expanse of her long legs teases my peripheral vision. Ive got to get control. Okay, listen. Im going to tell you something. About a theory I have. To make her feel better, not so alone, I feed her a line about artistic people embracing their mental instability. I have no idea what Im talking about. So you understand? She looks so hopeful. Im truly a monster. Yep. I knock my knee against hers and the contact just about kills me. Of course you do. You would. Thanks, Isaac. For letting me crash here. And everything else. Shes stumbled into the lions den and shes thanking me. I tell her where the bathroom is, and while shes gone, I pace the room. A thousand scenarios flash through my head, each one more lurid than the last. They end with the dream, and thats just it: they must end before its too late.

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