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Whether Alice was murdered by Len or not remained a dark question mark hanging in 


my mind like the gallows. I cannot be certain of anything regarding her, her fantasy life

boundless. But, this I’m certain: Tonight, two women shared a double bed, Alice secure

with my hands tightly holding her uplifted buttocks. I shared

my life now with Alice, not Len.

I have a restraining order against him from coming near my house. Two weeks so far

without his jealous threats because he left town. We lived in a restored Victorian thanks

to the pricey meals at the vegetarian restaurant, people craving unadulterated food and

non-hazardous lives.

“I bought a rabbit I named Wobbly today. It’s in the basement, protected behind a wire

cage,” Alice said a few minutes after she plunged a ribbed vibrator into my Ms. V,

tickling my clit for what seemed hours of pleasure. “I fed him carrots tops, Swiss chard,

and broccoli this afternoon.” I owned Riff’s, a vegetarian restaurant. I let Alice order

anything from Riff’s menu, including food for Wobbly. I saved her from the dark

streets, strange men, and death at an early age.

The pressure from Len’s reappearance dissipated, the emotional valve releasing

most of it. “If you see Len before I do, holler.”

“A sorceress might help him get over his hurt, work on his spiritual double” she said.

Men like Len having a double meant twice the trouble, I no longer his sexually abused


“Sorcerers can’t heal beans, you now. Len’s a bad omen, a hurricane waiting to

drown us.” She smiled and went downstairs with bok choy for Wobbly. She came

back and read a fantasy novel. Looking up, she said:

“I sang an Enya song to Wobbly and he shook all over he was so pleased.”

“Sweet, if you see Len call me at Riff’s, kick my butt if I’m napping on the cushions

after a long day.”

“I really love The Sweet Far Thing, Gemma entering the Realms where anything

magical happens,” she said. “I love it when you call me ‘Sweet’.”

How comforting Alice’s nickname was, the one I gave her. It soothed to me when I

called her that. “Listen, Len’s the opposite of fantasy. He’s hardboiled and dangerous.

Stay clear of him.”

“A wizard petted Wobbly, Sue. His hands huge yet gentle. When I told him Wobbly

said to me, ‘Watch it, girlie, trouble brewing’, he squeezed Wobbly’s neck too hard.”

“Len, here?” I said disbelieving, her words’ fuzzy. “When I’m at Riff’s, don’t let

anyone in, that means Len.”

“I raised my shirt, the red and green one you bought me, to distract him and he

patted Wobbly’s soft white fur, and handed Wobbly to me and then touched my bare

breasts.” What went on in the basement? Damn, Len could get in through the exterior

door, steps leading down to the basement. He had the special key.

“Will you?” A demand more than a question. She nodded and walked upstairs to her

reading room. I let the talking rabbit business pass, Alice’s delusions as good as reading

novels. She had hundreds neatly shelved in a room on the third floor. A hour later she

went to the basement to feed Wobbly mustard greens.

“He told me he wanted to see more of me next time, giving me a wizard’s blink

blink, raising a fistful of starlight, saying he’d throw a lightening bolt at Wobbly if I


Just then, my smartphone’s email pinged the first few notes of Christine Harnische’s

Etude Pathetique Opus 124 composed by Cecile Chaminade. She loved Enya’s fantasy

songs. Picture Y, two slanting lines our musical divergences. Those same slanted lines

meeting that upright line marked our conjoined exposed men in a boat. She fingered her

clit and that excited me and I wanted her hot friction. She was young while I was middle-

aged, my face wrinkled.

“Shit, Len’s in town,” I said after reading his email. Her face flushed as if sexually

aroused while Len stomped out my desire.

“I told the truth and you thought it was dreaminess and didn’t believe me.”

She went back to her reading room. I slept and woke up with a start. It was 3:30 a.m.

and no Alice. I checked upstairs and she wasn’t there. She took her mobile. My

smartphone did the Christine Harnische ringtone. The email read:

We listened to Enya’s, “Someone Said Goodbye” and then he

turned me into hot churned butter with his plunger. He won’t

bother you anymore. Didn’t we have fun, our wild sex so good?

He put a spell on me and turned me into cold, cold weather from

which I might not return. I’ll gift you something from the other

side. Don’t wait up for me, Susie Q.

I hit Alice’s reply five times, each bounced back: Mail System Error-Returned Mail,

Message undeliverable. The next morning I opened a bright, shiny box on my way to

Riff’s. Wobbly’s bloody head was inside.


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