IRENE DINED ALONE, locked in her room again that night. Christopher would have preferred to eat with her, but he knew better than anyone how dangerous it could be to ignore Miss Miller for too long. This way when Miss M complained about being locked in her bedroom all afternoon, he could at least point out that Irene was still locked in hers.
There was, however, zero chance of Miss M receiving a visit from Peter that evening. Christopher had other plans for the body. After dinner he and Miss Miller did the washing up together, visited Freddie Mercury and his flock, and sat together on the front porch watching the sun set behind Horned Ridge, the two-pronged peak to the west.
But when that sun was gone, so was Christopher. Irene was sitting at the writing table composing a second haiku when she heard the knock. She glanced quickly over her poem—
Sunset on Scorned Ridge
Strawberry Blonds Forever
I don’t want to die.
—then closed her notebook and slipped it under the top of the escritoire.
“Yes?”
“It’s Christopher—may I come in?”
“Can it wait till morning?”
He hadn’t expected that. “I just wanted to say good night.”
Irene decided she might as well test him now as later. “Good night, then.”
“Christopher, we have a contract. You’ve agreed to respect my rights. As I’m sure you’re aware, DID therapy can be as exhausting for the therapist as for the patient. I’d really appreciate a little space tonight—then I’ll see you in the morning, fresh and rested and ready to go.”
On the other side of the door, Christopher was in a quandary. He felt a nearly overwhelming desire to let Max or one of the others have her—as long as it wasn’t Lyssy, at least he’d be able to access the memory. Then he realized that the urging was probably coming from Max.
Irene put her ear to the door—she could hear him breathing. “Good night, Christopher,” she said, trying to put a kindly, caring inflection on it.
“Good night, Irene.” Then, in a whisper: “I’ll see you in my dreams.”
* * *
Miss Miller is half asleep. Her bedroom door opens, then closes again softly. “Ulysses?” She stirs from her junkie nod as he climbs into bed beside her.
“Sshh.” Christopher, as opposed to Max or Peter, hasn’t made love to Miss Miller since he was a boy, but Irene has left him no choice—for Christopher, the drying shed is no longer an attractive option.
Miss M is lying on her back. He can see too much of what’s left of her unmasked profile; his erection is rapidly dwindling. Hastily he shuts his eyes, nudges her over onto her side, facing away from him, and works her nightgown up to her shoulder blades. Her back is unscarred—as he traces a line down her spine and fondles her cheeks, he can just about persuade himself that it is Irene’s long, slender ass he’s fondling. The erection stirs again. Rather than break the spell by attempting to enter her from behind, he flips it up, trapping it between his belly and her butt, and begins rubbing himself frantically against her.
“Oh, Ulysses,” she drawls coquettishly. She’s mildly aroused, drugged out, and amused. “Just like the old days.” She means the frotteurism.
“Sshh.” He hushes her again—that voice will spoil everything—and shuts his eyes even tighter, as if that will shut out the voice. “Don’t talk. Please don’t talk.”
Now the room is silent except for the silky, rhythmic whisper of the sheets. Five minutes, ten minutes—wshhh, wshhh, wshhh, wshhh. Then a moan, and it’s over.
“Thank you,” says Christopher.
No response—just Miss Miller’s steady, raspy breathing. She appears to have fallen asleep.
“Thank you, come again sssometime,” he replies for her, in Irene’s voice, so as to prolong the fantasy. Then he chuckles silently, wipes himself on the tail of her silken nightgown, and slides backward out of the bed, carefully avoiding any further contact with that dreadful body.