AND SO NOW, I WOULD LEAVE CATAMOUNT FALLS. I WOULD NOTIFY the telephone company, disconnect the phone. (Metti paid the phone bills: he would see that I’d terminated the account.) The previous week was the end of the university spring term, many of us would be departing soon. I felt a sudden stab of regret for that other life, the life of which Orlando Metti had no knowledge, my life as a university student who came onto campus only after dark—diffident, diligent, dutiful—a young woman who sat near the front of classrooms taking notes as if her life depended upon it.

Packed the Honda Civic with the little French bulldog (in a secondhand carrying cage: I didn’t trust him to behave himself in the car) and my (few) possessions. On the way out of Catamount Falls dropping by the Agency to say goodbye to Ava Schultz who’d become my only friend there and to inquire if they’d heard more from Orlando Metti.

Ava said she hadn’t heard anything. It was supposed that, since I’d returned the things Metti had claimed I’d stolen, Metti was appeased and would not cause more trouble.

I asked her if Metti was continuing as a customer and she said sure, she thought so. Metti hadn’t actually had any complaints about my housecleaning. He’d paid his bills more or less on time. Over the years, other women the Agency had sent to him, most of them had worked out OK. He’d never accused anyone of stealing from him before me.

“You need to be more cautious, Violet. Next time you’ll know better.” Ava laughed.

Told Ava that I was leaving Catamount Falls and she expressed surprise though maybe not so much surprise, considering. Asked me where I was going and I told her I didn’t know yet—“I’m just running for my life.”

Tongue

. . . THRUST INTO YOUR MOUTH TO IMPALE YOU, SUBDUE YOU. THE man’s tongue thick like a snake not warm but weirdly cool, clammy. Predator-male tongue prepared to thrust and penetrate until you choke to death.

Bitch. Slut. Lying cunt.

This isn’t over yet.

“OH, BRINDLE. STOP.”

Soft flopping tongue on my face. Soul of the dog is the tongue.

Laughing, pushing the little bulldog away. A dog’s mouth is not exactly clean.

Waking in this new place. Relieved to be alive.

Premature heat of May, white-tinged sun falling directly on my face since I have not (yet) put up blinds, curtains. Outside the window is a balcony, a railing that casts bars of shadow against the windowpanes, onto the bed, on my face as I lie in bed awakened by the funny little dog wanting only to kiss me.