TWENTY
IN SLEEP SHE WAS ALWAYS there. Even the pressure of Gideon’s eyelids was no barrier. She came every night since then, five now. First came the snow, the white obliterating nothingness of it, whirling, blinding, driven into his eyes and skin, the thousand icy punctures that one by one inoculated or poisoned him. He could never be sure.
From this maelstrom, the small, sinuous curve of her body came into focus. In the dream she always wore a parka, eggshell white and fur-trimmed, the hood a tunnel that drew him to her. She pushed the hood back, her hair unbound and snaking in the cold wind, her red mouth laughing. The wind bawled in his ears and he strained to hear what she was saying but it seemed she was only mouthing the words. He watched her lips and she said it again. She wanted
