Five Stories for the Dark Months by Katherine Traylor

home.”
    His phone began to ring again. As
the Sugar Plum Fairy tripped her erratic way up and down the scale,
Paul stared into Helen’s cold dark eyes and wondered why he was
here. At last, without really thinking about it, he pulled the
phone out again and turned it off. “I have to go,” he said
again.
    “Of course.” Helen stepped
backward, swaying like a cobra. “It was so very lovely to meet you,
Paul. I think perhaps we will not meet again. But you should go
home—go and see your wife. See your son.”
    Something terrible was happening,
he thought. A glorious opportunity was slipping by, and for the
life of him he couldn’t tell why he wasn’t taking it.
“I…”
    “But are you sure you won’t come
upstairs, only for a little while?” Her eyes glinted yellow in the
glow of the porch lights. There was something mesmerizing about her
voice—it hissed and throbbed, burrowing deep into his head. “I
think you’ll feel much better.”
    Paul swallowed around a throat gone
suddenly dry. “I really shouldn’t.” His voice was
hoarse.
    “You could take a taxi home.”
Reaching out again, she laid her hand against his chest. He drew a
sharp, painful breath. “You’d be there in no time, that way. What’s
ten minutes, more or less, if you’re already so late?”
    “My wife is going to kill me.”
Despite his words, his hand rose up and closed around Helen’s
small, cold one. “She’s going to skin me alive.”
    “Then why are you in such a hurry
to see her?”
    Her logic was
impeccable.
    “Ten minutes,” Helen whispered,
holding his gaze.
    Paul shivered. He opened his mouth
to refuse, and nodded. “All right,” he said. “Ten
minutes.”
     
    He woke to silence. Thin grey light
flowed through an open window, along with a chilly breeze that
shivered the white gauze curtains.
    Paul stirred, frowning. Had Wendy
changed the curtains? But she loved the blue ones, and she was
always talking about saving money…
    The bed was different, too, he
realized slowly: a circular mattress on the floor by the window,
covered by a white duvet—down, he thought, scented with herbs. He
was naked beneath it—they must have made love last night. Dimly, he
began to remember…
    …the taste of her salty skin
between his teeth, her hands against his throat as he moved into
her—the sharp, dry scent of her body, and the shape of her small,
dark nipples—the brush of her tangled hair against his—
    Gasping, Paul turned over and
reached for Wendy. “Mmm… hey, babe, I—”
    His hand, beneath the covers, fell
on a taut, curved waist—much smaller than Wendy’s had ever been,
even before the baby. Its owner sighed softly, nuzzling
closer.
    A tremor of fear ran through Paul’s
bones. “Wendy?” he whispered. He reached for the edge of the
duvet—then stopped, afraid to see what lay beneath.
    “Mmm… who is Wendy?” The voice was
low and hoarse with sleep—and nothing like his wife’s.
    He watched, mute and frozen, as the
covers fell and Helen sat up. Nude, she was exquisite. Her bones
were delicate, her breasts high, her skin flawless. Her back was to
the window, and the dim gray light of morning set her face in
shadow, making black pools of her eyes. Her dark hair fell to her
waist, cloaking her shoulders and covering her nipples, obscenely
demure.
    She looked younger now, thought
Paul, in the small part of his head that wasn’t paralyzed with
horror. She could have been eighteen, where before she’d looked
almost thirty. Her waist and hips were narrow, her breasts small
and pointed, her belly flat. Her skin was as smooth as glass. She
looked like an angel, or perhaps a fairy.
    She watched him stare for a moment,
then smiled. “Good morning, Paul,” she said.
    He couldn’t think of a word to
say.
    “Did you sleep well?” Helen cocked
her head, birdlike. “We’ve had a long night together.” With a sly
half-smile, she ran her fingertips down Paul’s chest. “But perhaps
you are ready for a