perfectly
. She touched her upper arm, fingering the yellowing center of the uneven, concentric rings.
I wonder how much longer it’ll hurt
.
She didn’t really mind the bruise. It was earned in a good cause—dancing too close to that guitarist, who’d swung the neck of the instrument vehemently and connected with her just below the shoulder.
Tired from another day of battling both Samantha Hugo
and the
polluters of the planet, she threw off her clothes andpulled on her favorite Halloween nightshirt, its fading white skeleton standing out against the black cotton.
Bunching the pillows on her unmade bed, Susan prepared for one final task before turning in early for the night—one she’d enjoy. Under the light of a bare bulb, she opened her book of clippings, enjoying the crackle of the plastic cover sheets.
Though she’s scissored out the articles and placed them carefully on the sticky sheets, what she missed was the vibrant color that would’ve been such a key part of the real events.
I gotta get my own camera, take my own shots. Only I want one of those new digitals … be cheaper than buying film and developing it. There’s that Canon PowerShot 600 … only been out since July. Maybe I can save up for it—if I don’t die of old age first
.
Turning the pages carefully, she tracked the progress of the bands who toured the Central Coast. In the photos, the rock stars—leather-clad and pierced, tattooed and spiked—stuck out their tongues at fans and screamed their passions into microphones. She cherished every defiant gesture. But this evening, she had a mission to complete.
I know I’ve seen that same face lurking in the background at more than one local concert. I gotta find out who he is
.
“Can’t see a damn thing,” she muttered, then laughed.
I can’t use that language in front of Samantha, but my posters don’t mind
. Scrambling impatiently off the bed, she found an old shoebox on her makeshift desk and rummaged for her magnifying glass. Grasping it, she blew away a puff of dust, then held it close to the pages.
There—a man with dark hair… hard to make out the face
. In the poorly reproduced black-and-white picture, the image was nothing more than a collection of dots, now that she couldsee it close up. Still, the way he stood, the line of his jaw… she’d seen him before. His high cheekbones and the upsweep of his eyes were something like her own.
Is he someone I saw at the Reservation?
She clenched at the thought.
No
, she thought.
I’m sure it’s because he’s been at other concerts
. She continued looking to see if she could uncover a clearer photo of him.
There… standing between members of Topic. Who
is
he?
Reading each of the names, she counted bodies, correlating names to faces. The fourth from the left. “Ken Casmalia.”
Gotcha. Is there something familiar about his name? Next concert … I’ll find you
.
It was something to dream about.
Night had fallen in Milford-Haven, but it never fell dark enough for Jack Sawyer to feel completely unworried. Once, the velvet night had been a welcome refuge. Now it seemed to be an invitation into anxiety.
The conversation with the reporter went well enough. Now I just have to wait
. That was the thing about nighttime: he couldn’t see what was going on, couldn’t reach out his powerful arms to control things that needed controlling.
Then there’s Sally
. It was true, she brought him a measure of comfort. Yet their continued relationship implied more of a connection than he was willing to acknowledge. Still, he hadn’t come up with a logical reason to stop seeing her.
Much as he found her demeanor in the restaurant a bit overbearing each morning, he had to admit she was discreet.
And she conceals more down-home good sense and feminine
essence behind that apron than most women manage to reveal in a black evening gown
.
Sally knows how to play the game, and I like that. Southern women are smart about men
. They generally
. She touched her upper arm, fingering the yellowing center of the uneven, concentric rings.
I wonder how much longer it’ll hurt
.
She didn’t really mind the bruise. It was earned in a good cause—dancing too close to that guitarist, who’d swung the neck of the instrument vehemently and connected with her just below the shoulder.
Tired from another day of battling both Samantha Hugo
and the
polluters of the planet, she threw off her clothes andpulled on her favorite Halloween nightshirt, its fading white skeleton standing out against the black cotton.
Bunching the pillows on her unmade bed, Susan prepared for one final task before turning in early for the night—one she’d enjoy. Under the light of a bare bulb, she opened her book of clippings, enjoying the crackle of the plastic cover sheets.
Though she’s scissored out the articles and placed them carefully on the sticky sheets, what she missed was the vibrant color that would’ve been such a key part of the real events.
I gotta get my own camera, take my own shots. Only I want one of those new digitals … be cheaper than buying film and developing it. There’s that Canon PowerShot 600 … only been out since July. Maybe I can save up for it—if I don’t die of old age first
.
Turning the pages carefully, she tracked the progress of the bands who toured the Central Coast. In the photos, the rock stars—leather-clad and pierced, tattooed and spiked—stuck out their tongues at fans and screamed their passions into microphones. She cherished every defiant gesture. But this evening, she had a mission to complete.
I know I’ve seen that same face lurking in the background at more than one local concert. I gotta find out who he is
.
“Can’t see a damn thing,” she muttered, then laughed.
I can’t use that language in front of Samantha, but my posters don’t mind
. Scrambling impatiently off the bed, she found an old shoebox on her makeshift desk and rummaged for her magnifying glass. Grasping it, she blew away a puff of dust, then held it close to the pages.
There—a man with dark hair… hard to make out the face
. In the poorly reproduced black-and-white picture, the image was nothing more than a collection of dots, now that she couldsee it close up. Still, the way he stood, the line of his jaw… she’d seen him before. His high cheekbones and the upsweep of his eyes were something like her own.
Is he someone I saw at the Reservation?
She clenched at the thought.
No
, she thought.
I’m sure it’s because he’s been at other concerts
. She continued looking to see if she could uncover a clearer photo of him.
There… standing between members of Topic. Who
is
he?
Reading each of the names, she counted bodies, correlating names to faces. The fourth from the left. “Ken Casmalia.”
Gotcha. Is there something familiar about his name? Next concert … I’ll find you
.
It was something to dream about.
Night had fallen in Milford-Haven, but it never fell dark enough for Jack Sawyer to feel completely unworried. Once, the velvet night had been a welcome refuge. Now it seemed to be an invitation into anxiety.
The conversation with the reporter went well enough. Now I just have to wait
. That was the thing about nighttime: he couldn’t see what was going on, couldn’t reach out his powerful arms to control things that needed controlling.
Then there’s Sally
. It was true, she brought him a measure of comfort. Yet their continued relationship implied more of a connection than he was willing to acknowledge. Still, he hadn’t come up with a logical reason to stop seeing her.
Much as he found her demeanor in the restaurant a bit overbearing each morning, he had to admit she was discreet.
And she conceals more down-home good sense and feminine
essence behind that apron than most women manage to reveal in a black evening gown
.
Sally knows how to play the game, and I like that. Southern women are smart about men
. They generally
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