The Year's Best Horror Stories 18 by Karl Edward Wagner

Author:Karl Edward Wagner
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Jennifer stood against the pale rectangle of the window, holding the long curtains to one side, peering out into the rainy night. Her shoulder, the side of one small breast, her hips, were in silhouette, and were in turn reflected in the glass.

"Did you ever think about what a different sort of world it is when it rains?"

she asked.

David lay on the bed, enjoying the feel of the cool sheets, watching her watch the night.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it's as if the rain both joins things, somehow, and separates them. It joins them in itself. It covers things. But it separates people -- it pushes us apart, into our own little buildings, our own little dry spaces."

He rolled off the bed and walked up behind her, putting his arms around her, under her breasts. Her skin was very soft. She leaned back against his chest.

"You should have been a poet, rather than a painter," he said.

"You don't like my paintings?" She made a face, her wide mouth pouting.

He laughed.

"You know better than that. I think you're great."

They stood like that, she leaning against him, for a long time, watching what they could see of the night through the window -- the old stores on the street below, the tops of the lower houses, the distant lights of another section of the city, all softened, haloed by the moisture in the air.

"Well, time to go now," she said, turning and standing on her toes to give him a kiss. He pulled her to him to feel her breasts against his chest.

"Why, there's plenty of night left...."

"Lustful boy." She bit his neck. "I've got work to do. A whole book to read for Art History."

"Art History? I thought you studio people didn't have to take classes like that."

She shook her head.

"A well rounded mind in a body streaked with oils and acrylic."

"I don't recall finding much acrylic this evening."

She gave him a light slap and danced away.

"I washed." She walked across the little living room retrieving bits of her clothing.

He enjoyed watching her, the girlish way in which she made a dance out of retrieving her clothes.

"Anything I can get you? Coffee? Brandy? Candy?"

"A shot of brandy would be nice," she said, leaning back on the bed to tug on her tight jeans. He went into the kitchen and poured two glasses of Martell, brought them back. She was making up the bed.

"You don't need to do that."

"Oh yes, oh yes!" She shook her head and her dark curls flew. "The memory of making your bed will help me think of you when I'm all alone tonight, with Picasso, Modigliana, Marc and the others."

She tossed back the brandy, looking up at him. Her slightly-too-wide mouth held a broad smile.

"I like seeing you walk around naked like that." She abruptly knelt in front of him and gave him a few particular kisses. He closed his eyes and put his hands in back of her head, but she pulled gently away.

"Something to remember me by," she laughed, "and to look forward to for next time.

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