Meter Maids Eat Their Young by E. J. Knapp Page A

cloak.
    â€œWell,” I said, ready to give her an answer. To my surprise, nothing came. My mouth hung open, my tongue wet and ready for words, but no words came. I didn’t have an answer. I started to shake. The moisture on my lips froze.
    I woke up.
    The transition was seamless. I simply opened my eyes, a Don Henley song echoing in my head. Summer, yeah, that was some summer. The bedroom glowed with moonlight. The wind whistled softly through the screen above my bed, the breeze sliding across my body like satin. It was warm, with a hint of rain.
    Once, there had been nights like this, Robyn curled up beside me, asleep. I would wake, roll over, watch her breathe; trace with trembling fingers the contours of her body as it glowed in the moonlight, wondering how long she would stay in my world.
    Now there was only me. My heart felt as if it were being filled with air. There were tears in my eyes and I didn’t know to which emotion I should attach them. I longed for something, with the bitter knowledge that what I longed for was a ghost, a point in time to which I could never return and never relive.
    And in that passage of time I had become the weaver of a tale I am too afraid to finish, knowing that to do so would leave me with an empty loom. The endless raveling and unraveling had become ritual, the never-ending tale a refuge. The strands have grown thin, their colors faded, the original design distorted in the constant reweaving. Yet I keep my foot upon the treadle, my hands upon the shuttle, blindly raising and lowering warp threads in shifting combinations, their purpose lost.
    The breeze dried my tears. I could hear the rumble of distant thunder. The glow of the moon was fading. I reached out my hand. The space beside me was as empty as I felt inside.
    When I woke again it was past noon and raining. The strains of a Billy Holiday tune were seeping from the radio. Reluctantly I opened my eyes. The curtain was billowing into the room, undulating in the wind. The thunder was closer. Flashes of lightning traced shadows on the wall. Billy became John Lee Hooker who in turn became Muddy Waters. Though still a rocker to the core, I prefer the anguish of blues upon waking. It always sets the mood for the day to come.
    When Muddy handed it over to BB and BB slid it on down to Tab Benoit, I rolled out of bed and just about fell to my knees, my legs were so wobbly. I sat back down and that was when I realized I was soaked in sweat, over-heated and shivering at the same time. No wonder I had slept so late. Whatever foul chemicals I had sucked into my system at that print shop were doing a number on me.
    With an effort, I managed to stand and make it to the kitchen. Despite the distraction of my mournful thoughts, and shivers that had me spilling coffee beans and cat food all over the counter, I managed to make it through the first thirty minutes without injuring myself or the cats. Chores done, coffee cup in hand, I grabbed a blanket and headed for the porch, shaking off the last remnants of the Robyn Zone.
    The rain was coming down in long, wavering sheets. I hesitated at the stairs, hoping Jaz would appear, knowing she wouldn’t. No doubt at work by now. I continued onto the porch, wrapped the blanket around myself and sat down in my chair.
    The wind was whipping the swings across the street into a frenzy of activity, as though ghost children were at riotous play. The seconds between the flashes of brilliant lightning and the accompanying boom of thunder were growing shorter. The storm was nearly overhead.
    Despite the long hot shower I had taken the night before, I could still smell traces of printer’s ink seeping from my pores and the taste of it was still in my mouth. I was beginning to think this was going to be a complete down day, when my pager went off and my cell phone began bashing Beethoven.
    â€œTeller,” I said, flipping the thing open.
    â€œAre you all right?” said Felice.
    My heart