Again by Sharon Cullars Page A

even joke about that,” he said. “OK, I’ll pick you up say six-thirty?”
    “Yeah, great. See you then.”
    David hung up the phone, hung up his jacket, then walked to the living room. He found his jazz compilation CD, put it on. Ellington’s “Sophisticated Lady” flowed through the living room, floated up to the rafters, bounced off the windows. He poured a glass of white wine, settled down in his lounger facing the fireplace, pushed off his loafers with his feet, sipped, and closed his eyes. A vestige of the earlier headache still drummed behind his eyelids, and he willed it to go away. If that didn’t work, he would have to hunt for some ibuprofen. Relax. That’s what he needed to do.
    As he listened to the music, the tension began drifting from his limbs. It seeped away, leaving a quiet lethargy in its place. Sleep came unexpectedly, quickly, taking him with it to some other place…
    He walked slowly, afraid that she might sense him following behind. The bustle of her lilac skirt swayed with her steps, hypnotizing him as he watched her continue up Broadway. She was wearing one of those ridiculous female concoctions on her head. This was lilac also, velvet, trimmed with tiny roses. He imagined the lustrous auburn hair caught up beneath, could feel the texture of it as he stroked the corkscrew curls. So different than he had supposed, as he had imagined in his dreams. He remembered the silk of her brown skin, and thought it an inimitable sin to have such loveliness enshrouded where no eyes could see. Where his eyes in particular were now denied. The spectral scent of jasmine tormented him. There had been the slight essence of that perfect flower between the luscious breasts and he had tasted the salt of her skin. Knew that he had to taste, to touch her one last time. He walked faster.
    He didn’t know how long he could follow before she sensed him. Sensed the longing trailing her with each step. Would she stop and welcome his “good morning” or would she hasten away as she had before? He didn’t know and if he were to be truthful to himself he didn’t care. She would not get away from him. He would make her see reason. But he knew that reason had left him a long time ago. It had disappeared with the first setting of warm brown eyes on him, and a smile from soft, full lips. He was a man possessed, and he knew that he was on the verge of madness. That he would not ever let her go. That if he could not have her here….
     
     
     
    She struggled against the hand holding her, pulling her. Fetid smells mixed with the smell of brine, making her gag. The lover held her, his grip tight, desperate. She wanted to pull away, but she couldn’t. He was too strong. He wouldn’t let her go, had said he would never let her go. She turned to see his face, but only saw the glint of the knife as it came toward her. It slid along her neck in a cruel, thin, red line. The shock of the pain seared as she began to choke on her own blood flooding her throat, her lungs…
    Tyne spluttered awake, coughing. The sound machine was no longer playing, the waves of the ocean silent. She covered her mouth with her hand as a spasm wracked her body. She felt as though she were drowning. But it was her imagination. She wasn’t dying. She was safe, sitting up in her bed. She had swallowed wrong. That was all. Still, fear settled on her like a cold sheet.
    Several moments passed, and the coughing died. The fear remained.
    She pulled her hand away from her mouth, saw the dark circle of moisture in her palm. It seemed darker than saliva. The taste in her mouth was salty, metallic.
    She rushed from her bed to turn on the wall switch. The sudden wash of white light made her blink. Everything was as it should be: the bed, dresser, rattan chair, her bookcase and nightstand, on which lay the mystery novel she had started several nights ago. The normalcy of the room said that nothing was wrong.
    She opened her palm to see what she already knew was