He
wanted both gone forever. He wanted another chance.
Ivy stirred. She raised her head off Peter's chest and looked at
him. Her face was glistening, content. "Thank you," was all she
said. She raised herself from him and collected her kimono. She
covered him lightly with the comforter, blew out the candle, and
vanished.
He tested his defense. A whisper: "It was the wine - "
But he could not complete the sentence, for it was already done.
And it was not the wine. It was another thing altogether. And he
felt it now.
The little thing in his heart. The little thing that had come and
gone earlier in the evening. It was back again. It lay quietly,
barely perceptible, like the breathing of a tiny creature, and he
had almost not noticed it. But there was no mistaking it now, and
he fought to grasp hold of it, to suffocate it, but his attempts
were futile. It felt as though the thing had established
permanent residency.
For many hours, until his consciousness finally succumbed to
mental depletion, he was disturbed by a queer premonition. That
the dark, throbbing thing in his heart was determined to eat its
way out, ever so slowly, boring straight through the only parts
that Peter had ever loved, the only parts that had ever mattered.
Chapter 3
It was a bright, hazy morning, not yet seven o'clock, but already
hot and humid, which wasn't so unusual for a June day in New York
City.
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