other people, the woman loved singing in the shower,
where there were no critics or gawkers.
With her eyes still shut, the woman stepped closer to
the showerhead, allowing the water to rinse her hair. As the shampoo lather
streamed down her naked body, she kept humming Dancing Queen, while running her
fingers through her locks. She was enveloped in puffs of steam, the water noise
drowned every other sound in the bathroom; oblivious to the world outside the
foggy shower door, she didn’t see the man approach the cabin.
3.
The memory expired as abruptly as it had come to his
mind. A few seconds later, he only had a vague idea of what the dream had been
about. And the memory of the one-legged man had vanished completely.
So, one, two, three. He was summoning his strength.
Summoning his strength. He had to open his eyes. And here was the light. His
eyelids finally opened. Focusing, and...
A woman's face. Perhaps he should go to the bathroom
and wash his face and brush his teeth. He also did not want to be late for
work. By the way, where did he work?
“Mister Fowler,” the woman said in a low voice, putting
her warm palm on his hand.
Lying in bed was pleasant. The woman’s palm was very
warm, as if it had rested on a hot towel for a while before landing on his
hand. He had no desire to get up. It felt as though he had grown into the bed,
become part of it. The woman was apparently kind. Kind as a mother.
He moved his lips apart and forgot to register how
difficult this action was because all of his attention was drawn to the face of
the kind woman clasping his hand. His right hand. Or was it his left hand?
Damn, which hand was she holding?
“Mister Fowler, if you can hear me, move your right
thumb.” A pause. “Move any finger if you can hear me, Mister Fowler. Hang on a
second. I'm going to get the doctor.”
Yes, sure, he could hear her. He moved (or so it seemed
to him) his right index finger. Yes, it was the index finger on the hand the
woman was squeezing. He wagged it with sufficient amplitude so that the woman
would easily notice the movement.
“Hang—” the woman fell silent after seeing his finger
twitch, which meant he had actually moved it. “Very good, Mister Fowler. I'll
get the doctor.”
As she rose from the chair, she poured a pleasant sweet
smell over him—everything coming from this woman was pleasant. Then she left
the room, her heels knocking softly on the floor. Or maybe it wasn’t her heels.
Now he wasn’t even sure he had heard the knocking.
Knocking? And what about breakfast? Or was it time for
lunch?
Or dinner?
“Hello,” he whispered. He realized it had been a
whisper and wanted to believe he had intended to whisper that word, but in
reality he had been going to shout it. The sad fact was his vocal folds were
not up to the task at the moment. Right now he sounded like a punctured balloon.
“Hello.”
You might as well just keep silent, buddy, considering
that your voice is so faint. It’s as if you are afraid of waking up a little
child. Yeah, keep silent, man, don't make people laugh.
After the last thought had fully formed in his mind,
there was another fleeting memory flash—the final half of the dream.
He opened the shower cabin door. The woman was applying
conditioner to her hair and was completely absorbed in this task when he
grabbed her by her left arm. To his surprise, she didn't scream. He attempted
to step inside the cabin, but the woman managed to push him out. However, it
was too early for the woman to celebrate because he pulled her out of the
shower as he stumbled back.
He lost his balance, they fell down on the floor, and
he began to strangle her, holding her torso tightly with his left arm and
crushing her throat with his right forearm. The woman was kicking, wiggling,
and scratching his arms as she tried to writhe out of his grip. They rolled
over, and the woman found herself on top of him, but it didn’t help her one
bit. His grasp remained
where there were no critics or gawkers.
With her eyes still shut, the woman stepped closer to
the showerhead, allowing the water to rinse her hair. As the shampoo lather
streamed down her naked body, she kept humming Dancing Queen, while running her
fingers through her locks. She was enveloped in puffs of steam, the water noise
drowned every other sound in the bathroom; oblivious to the world outside the
foggy shower door, she didn’t see the man approach the cabin.
3.
The memory expired as abruptly as it had come to his
mind. A few seconds later, he only had a vague idea of what the dream had been
about. And the memory of the one-legged man had vanished completely.
So, one, two, three. He was summoning his strength.
Summoning his strength. He had to open his eyes. And here was the light. His
eyelids finally opened. Focusing, and...
A woman's face. Perhaps he should go to the bathroom
and wash his face and brush his teeth. He also did not want to be late for
work. By the way, where did he work?
“Mister Fowler,” the woman said in a low voice, putting
her warm palm on his hand.
Lying in bed was pleasant. The woman’s palm was very
warm, as if it had rested on a hot towel for a while before landing on his
hand. He had no desire to get up. It felt as though he had grown into the bed,
become part of it. The woman was apparently kind. Kind as a mother.
He moved his lips apart and forgot to register how
difficult this action was because all of his attention was drawn to the face of
the kind woman clasping his hand. His right hand. Or was it his left hand?
Damn, which hand was she holding?
“Mister Fowler, if you can hear me, move your right
thumb.” A pause. “Move any finger if you can hear me, Mister Fowler. Hang on a
second. I'm going to get the doctor.”
Yes, sure, he could hear her. He moved (or so it seemed
to him) his right index finger. Yes, it was the index finger on the hand the
woman was squeezing. He wagged it with sufficient amplitude so that the woman
would easily notice the movement.
“Hang—” the woman fell silent after seeing his finger
twitch, which meant he had actually moved it. “Very good, Mister Fowler. I'll
get the doctor.”
As she rose from the chair, she poured a pleasant sweet
smell over him—everything coming from this woman was pleasant. Then she left
the room, her heels knocking softly on the floor. Or maybe it wasn’t her heels.
Now he wasn’t even sure he had heard the knocking.
Knocking? And what about breakfast? Or was it time for
lunch?
Or dinner?
“Hello,” he whispered. He realized it had been a
whisper and wanted to believe he had intended to whisper that word, but in
reality he had been going to shout it. The sad fact was his vocal folds were
not up to the task at the moment. Right now he sounded like a punctured balloon.
“Hello.”
You might as well just keep silent, buddy, considering
that your voice is so faint. It’s as if you are afraid of waking up a little
child. Yeah, keep silent, man, don't make people laugh.
After the last thought had fully formed in his mind,
there was another fleeting memory flash—the final half of the dream.
He opened the shower cabin door. The woman was applying
conditioner to her hair and was completely absorbed in this task when he
grabbed her by her left arm. To his surprise, she didn't scream. He attempted
to step inside the cabin, but the woman managed to push him out. However, it
was too early for the woman to celebrate because he pulled her out of the
shower as he stumbled back.
He lost his balance, they fell down on the floor, and
he began to strangle her, holding her torso tightly with his left arm and
crushing her throat with his right forearm. The woman was kicking, wiggling,
and scratching his arms as she tried to writhe out of his grip. They rolled
over, and the woman found herself on top of him, but it didn’t help her one
bit. His grasp remained
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