Strings
Tim Lebbon
I wake in the early hours and hear scratching, and moaning, and the secretive whisper of something brushing along walls. When this happened before, Margot and Ray were still my friends and staying with me, and I believed their lovemaking to be the cause of the sounds. Trying to keep quiet for my sake, the height of passion took away their caution. The scrape of fingernails against a wall. The steady touch of bedding shifting somewhere beyond my room. Their groans, low and long as if such ecstasy could last forever.
This time, I know the noises aren't caused by them, because Margot and Ray left three days ago. I suspect I'll never see them again. They became worried about what we were attempting to do, though I think their fear is misplaced. I think they're cowards.
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