The Edge of Sleep by David Wiltse Page A

too large for the snake, but the snake knew better. Ash was taken by the stupefied look on the frog’s face as it was being swallowed. It showed no alarm, no fear, just a stupid wonderment.
    “See that?” Dee had said. “It doesn’t even care.”
    Ash had liked having her watch the show with him. She so often wasn’t home or wasn’t in the mood, but last night she had chosen to spend her time with him, just hanging around the room, watching television and commenting on things they saw. It was the kind of time they had together so seldom.
    When the thoughts of last night could no longer drown out Dee’s yells. Ash started to do pushups. In the exercise yard many of the men had done pushups to kill the time and Ash had become the best of all. He did them now, easing himself down until his nose touched the concrete before pushing up again, scrupulously avoiding any use of his legs, which he knew was cheating. He worked until sweat poured from his face and his arms trembled with the effort.
    Dee had stopped screaming and now he heard the sound of voices in conversation.
    Edgar lay back on the bed, convinced he was going to die, but, as the old saw had it, what a way to go. She was all he had hoped for—imaginative, indefatigable, multi-orgasmic—and loud as hell. He did not have to guess how matters were proceeding; she let him know at the top of her lungs.
    And was he ever doing well. He’d always suspected he was pretty good at this sex business, but he now realized he was a champion. He had pleasured her until she could no longer move. She lay beside him, drenched in sweat, exhausted and satisfied deeply enough to last a normal woman a month. Edgar could not resist a smug smile of self-congratulation as he stared at the ceiling. He’d certainly given her more than she had bargained for.
    He would have to get this woman’s phone number. He would be back in the area in a month’s time, and she was certainly worth a repeat visit. There were a few variations he had been tempted to try and would certainly get around to them next time. He had also learned a few new wrinkles, which he would use with his wife. They weren’t apt to work, of course, because they relied on a certain level of enthusiasm, and enthusiasm was a quality his wife lacked—in spades. But if he had ever entertained thoughts that her shy reserve—not to say torpor—was in any way his fault, he could certainly dismiss those suspicions now. He had just driven this woman crazy. And she was a bright, good-looking woman, too; the kind of woman who could have just about any man she wanted. She had wanted Edgar—and he had just proven that she had made the right choice.
    Edgar could not remember when he had felt more gratified after a bout with a relative stranger—or less inclined to bolt out the door after the passion was gone. Still, it was late; he had to work in the morning and he had already lain beside her for several minutes. She could not reasonably take offense if he left now.
    He made a show of looking at his watch.
    “My God, is it that late?” he said, sitting up abruptly. She put her hand on his naked thigh.
    “I had no idea,” he said.
    “Where do you think you’re going?” she asked. She had that edge to her voice that he had heard once or twice when they were hot at it. He had chosen to ignore it then, chalking it up to the heat of passion, but he had not liked it then and he liked it even less now.
    “It’s late,” he said. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pulling away from the hand on his thigh. “I’ve got to go.”
    “You’re not going anywhere,” she said.
    He understood the sentiment. Naturally she would want to hang on to him. That’s how women were; they never knew when to let go. But damn, he didn’t like that demanding tone. It made him angry.
    “I’ve got to run,” he said. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”
    “You’re not done,” she said.
    He chose to laugh even though he wanted to