caressed them as through layers of sand. A groan escaped her open mouth into the blasting wind.
~ * ~
What was that?
Elizabeth sat bolt upright in bed, listening.
Some sort of cry.
The sound had poured through her sleep, snatched her into wakefulness, its final tendrils dragging over her like scraps of vine.
It had come from outside.
She leaned toward the window, her fingernails brushing the wire mesh screen. She looked down through the branches of the tree to the street. It was empty. A gust of wind slid a sheet of newspaper along the sidewalk, rustled the shrubbery below. The entrance to the building was silent.
A dream , she thought.
The newspaper lay stirless in the gutter. She listened to the sounds inside her apartment. The clock ticking, the distant hum of her refrigerator, the dense silence.
She was beginning to feel sleepy again.
Something screamed, it sounded like a child's scream and just beyond the screen something hurtled through her field of vision, a sudden pale blinding flash of movement.
Then stopped.
And meowed.
A cat .
A slim white cat with a black-spotted tail.
You little shit , she thought. You scared me half to death .
The cat stared in at her wide-eyed, wary. It paced the ledge. Must have come from the floor above , she thought. Living dangerously, making a jump like that.
Her heart was still pounding.
The cat sniffed the ledge and window screen, its pink nose twitching. It gazed at the tree and seemed to contemplate the downward climb. Then it glanced back at Elizabeth. It did not seem terribly comfortable with her there, close enough to touch were it not for the screen. She wondered why. Cats usually took to her immediately.
Poor thing. It really did look scared out there.
The tip of its ear was missing.
There was only a little blood, it wasn't much more than a scratch, but the wound looked very recent. The blood was still glistening. Catfight , she thought. The eyes looked alert, frightened.
Frightened of her . She could swear it.
"What's the matter?" she whispered.
It was as though she'd hit it with a stick. The cat jumped out onto the nearest branch, ran to the main trunk of the tree and then raced suddenly down, disappearing into the shrubs below.
She watched until it was out of sight and then fell back away from the window into the cool softness of her bed. She lay a moment staring at the shadows playing across the ceiling and then closed her eyes.
Too bad , she thought. I could have patched her up a little .
The cat's amber-yellow eyes appeared before her, bright and full of some strange knowledge, before she fell asleep.
Barflies
This lady is terrific , he thought.
Close quarters had revealed a number of things. Slim waist, small firm breasts beneath the tight white sweater â with mercurial nipples that went hard or soft according to some runic chemistry, some internal winds of change â pale, smooth skin and delicate collarbones, a long and graceful neck, and full wide lips. Which smiled at him frequently.
Her name was Cynthia Jackson and she lived on 74th Street just off Central Park West. She was probably ten years younger than Tom and did not seem to mind the fact that he was older, she had a sister from Chicago whose visit last week she'd found very trying, and she was a photo- retoucher by trade and worked at home.
She in turn had elicited from him that he was an editor and that he was both married and had a child. This did not seem to faze her either.
If they got by Andy they were usually interested.
So that when she got up to use the john he knew she'd be back.
He ordered another round of drinks and watched her walk past the tables to the ladies' room, tight jeans promising equally fine slopes of leg and thigh.
It was only when the drinks arrived that he noticed the woman beside him.
She was drunk, leaning low over the bar. Not much to look at to start with and getting much worse by the moment. Scrawny inside a faded red t-shirt and
~ * ~
What was that?
Elizabeth sat bolt upright in bed, listening.
Some sort of cry.
The sound had poured through her sleep, snatched her into wakefulness, its final tendrils dragging over her like scraps of vine.
It had come from outside.
She leaned toward the window, her fingernails brushing the wire mesh screen. She looked down through the branches of the tree to the street. It was empty. A gust of wind slid a sheet of newspaper along the sidewalk, rustled the shrubbery below. The entrance to the building was silent.
A dream , she thought.
The newspaper lay stirless in the gutter. She listened to the sounds inside her apartment. The clock ticking, the distant hum of her refrigerator, the dense silence.
She was beginning to feel sleepy again.
Something screamed, it sounded like a child's scream and just beyond the screen something hurtled through her field of vision, a sudden pale blinding flash of movement.
Then stopped.
And meowed.
A cat .
A slim white cat with a black-spotted tail.
You little shit , she thought. You scared me half to death .
The cat stared in at her wide-eyed, wary. It paced the ledge. Must have come from the floor above , she thought. Living dangerously, making a jump like that.
Her heart was still pounding.
The cat sniffed the ledge and window screen, its pink nose twitching. It gazed at the tree and seemed to contemplate the downward climb. Then it glanced back at Elizabeth. It did not seem terribly comfortable with her there, close enough to touch were it not for the screen. She wondered why. Cats usually took to her immediately.
Poor thing. It really did look scared out there.
The tip of its ear was missing.
There was only a little blood, it wasn't much more than a scratch, but the wound looked very recent. The blood was still glistening. Catfight , she thought. The eyes looked alert, frightened.
Frightened of her . She could swear it.
"What's the matter?" she whispered.
It was as though she'd hit it with a stick. The cat jumped out onto the nearest branch, ran to the main trunk of the tree and then raced suddenly down, disappearing into the shrubs below.
She watched until it was out of sight and then fell back away from the window into the cool softness of her bed. She lay a moment staring at the shadows playing across the ceiling and then closed her eyes.
Too bad , she thought. I could have patched her up a little .
The cat's amber-yellow eyes appeared before her, bright and full of some strange knowledge, before she fell asleep.
Barflies
This lady is terrific , he thought.
Close quarters had revealed a number of things. Slim waist, small firm breasts beneath the tight white sweater â with mercurial nipples that went hard or soft according to some runic chemistry, some internal winds of change â pale, smooth skin and delicate collarbones, a long and graceful neck, and full wide lips. Which smiled at him frequently.
Her name was Cynthia Jackson and she lived on 74th Street just off Central Park West. She was probably ten years younger than Tom and did not seem to mind the fact that he was older, she had a sister from Chicago whose visit last week she'd found very trying, and she was a photo- retoucher by trade and worked at home.
She in turn had elicited from him that he was an editor and that he was both married and had a child. This did not seem to faze her either.
If they got by Andy they were usually interested.
So that when she got up to use the john he knew she'd be back.
He ordered another round of drinks and watched her walk past the tables to the ladies' room, tight jeans promising equally fine slopes of leg and thigh.
It was only when the drinks arrived that he noticed the woman beside him.
She was drunk, leaning low over the bar. Not much to look at to start with and getting much worse by the moment. Scrawny inside a faded red t-shirt and
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