Rosemary was deep in her own universe, her eyes half-open and looking at him with a dreamy expression. Her fingers were glistening with her own juice, juice produced for him, just for him. He had to know what she tasted like, God! He rubbed his face on the screen, the smell and taste of rust and dust suddenly sexy.

“Rose,” he moaned, unzipping his fly. “I want to hold you down and push my tongue inside you. I want to tongue-fuck you till you come and come . . .”

His incantation worked. She closed her eyes and arched her back. Her legs began to thrash. From the Internet porn he’d seen, he knew this to be a good thing; yet live, right in front of him, it was a different matter. He was terrified by Rosemary’s private epileptic trance. He was completely cut out of it.

Rosemary stifled her scream with her free hand. She bit into her fingers and her face scrunched up. Her torso trembled in waves—intense, protracted quakes as she curved her back some more, her fingers still thrusting, then she writhed with shorter, shallower aftershocks. Her eyes popped open and she gasped jaggedly for air, like someone dying. In seconds, her body went limp and she smiled at Arik like a docile doe.

“That’s just my first one,” she murmured. “I can go on and on and on . . .”

Out of nowhere came the grumbling buzz of a chopper. The ferocity of its approach suggested it had found its target.

In the racket, she thought she heard Arik say “I love you,” but couldn’t be sure. Whatever he said, Arik was gone. She listened as the chopper whipped over her roof and up the hill toward the mountains.

First thing next morning, she slipped outdoors. The crusty, yellowish streaks she found below her window made her feel warm and fuzzy, and yes, loved.

– 10 –

– 10 –

THE SICK ROSE

Mary-Sue had come a long way since the days she dreamt of outrunning the world on a pogo stick and flipping off her legions of doubters. She knew people still flung adjectives like “kooky,” “screwy” and “desperate” behind her back—but she learned to put her fists away. Over the years, this tolerance evolved into indifference, and as she stopped fighting back, she stopped hurting.

She grew to like her own company. It wasn’t the kind of loneliness she had experienced among the ascetics in Humboldt long ago, but the solitude of voluntary singlehood. Any non-asshole who entered into her orbit was gravy. After all, you could buy single-serving frozen pizzas these days, with all kinds of toppings. If she wanted to dine out, there was no dread in it; no longer did waiters throw pitiful looks at lone women. She always tipped well. There were also things called DVDs if she didn’t feel like going to an R-rated movie by herself.