In a bed, in a room. Where am I? The sheets are drenched, tangled around me, my sweat. Everything dark, no moon beyond the window. Water sounds. I'm not home, but where? My mind rushes in animal fear. Unreal memories. A woman shrieking, gasping for breath, almost howling as if tortured. Like someone trying to make as much noise as possible.
The murmur of the Columbia River flowing. Remember. I'm renting a room from Karl. The alarm clock's glow remains hidden until I move the pillow.
3:33.
Now it's quiet. Maybe I'll drift off. I need some sleep. Always so tired lately, fatigue a constant ache.
In the trees, all dark, no moonlight. Underfoot, a cushion of dry pine needles. Sightless eyes, no help at all. Long howls, voice intermingling with wind blowing through woods. I step forward, hesitant, hands groping before me. Fingertips scrape something rough. A tree trunk. Warm air shifts, reverses. No more wind. Everything stops.
This room. I'm in bed. No trees. Still that sound.
I get up, open my door, peer into the hall. Not sure what I'm looking for. Curiosity drives me, or frustration.
A short hall connects our rooms, Karl's nearest the dockside front of the houseboat, mine toward the back. In the hall between us, a shared bathroom. I open my door without turning on the light, in case Karl's bedroom door is open. She was so loud, I wonder if they left their door open on purpose, maybe Karl's idea of a joke.
Make sure old Tiger hears you.
The black hallway, so still. My own breathing, and the floor creaks. I can hear, or least feel, the river swirling not far beneath my feet.
How long ago did she stop? Maybe just now. Maybe she heard my door open.
I'm not trying to see, don't want to impose myself. So what am I after? I crack open the bathroom door, flick on the switch. Indirect light reaches the hall.
Karl's door is open, the bedroom dark beyond the verge.
I'm listening, motionless. Can I hear breathing, other than my own? I step nearer Karl's open door.
Not my room, not my place. "Karl?" I whisper.
No answer. My eyes adjust, dilated pupils straining to make out shapes.
"Sorry," I say. "Thought I heard something."
The minimal spray of light ends just inside the doorway. The room is a black void. My eyes extend, try to reach, find something more.
There's someone seated on the edge of the bed. Bare legs smooth, hairless. Feet on the ground, toenails painted. A woman. Impossible to discern more.
Her voice out of the dark. "I'm the only one here now."
I freeze, feeling caught. Straining to see. No color, no features. Just an outline, a blurred photograph of a female nude. Feet together. Ankles, calves, knees, thighs. Can I make out a torso? Breasts, very white. Not sure how much I see, how much is imagination. A mystery.
"Where's Karl?" I ask.
"He'll be back," she whispers.
This seems like no answer, but I'm at least half asleep, too disoriented to manage any reply. My heart strains in my chest. I feel too self-conscious standing here, swaying back and forth on the verge of the doorway to my absent roommate's room, talking to some naked stranger. Need for sleep overtakes me, a sudden urgency. Fatigue refuses to be ignored. I can think of no more words, no reason to be here. I want to apologize, but instead back up, snap off the bathroom light.
The hallway goes dark, and there's nothing at all beyond that open door. Then I'm in bed, blinking against the thick, oppressive night, wondering whether I ever really got out of bed at all. Maybe I've been here the whole time, imagining.
I feel certain I've intruded. She has more right to be here in Karl's place than I do. She's in Karl's bed. I still want to know where he's gone, but can't ask again. I don't know what I was looking for. Anyway, it's so dark, she probably has no idea what I could see. Maybe she thinks she's invisible. Maybe she is. Sometimes eyes offer what we expect to see, especially after too much imagining.
Maybe I'll be able to sleep now, finally sleep. Mind relieved in blankness. Fatigue and arousal, competing sicknesses in my gut. But so often I've gone to bed, convinced I'm tired enough, then ended up stuck, mind racing, wondering where I went wrong.
For six months after I left Michelle, I never considered the next woman, where I might meet her, whether she'd be a drunken hookup facilitated by Karl, a rebound girlfriend, a prostitute, a second wife. Living in Karl's place, always swaying on the water of the Columbia, such an uncertain and foundationless approach to my future seemed plausible. Not starting over new, but waiting for my old life to recommence. How does a man, satisfied with stable work and contented marriage, transform so quickly into a traumatized victim of divorce? I watch too much standup comedy on cable, drink too much cheap whisky, and sleep nowhere near enough. When I was married, I took care of myself. Not anymore.
Somehow, things have to change. I've never been a bachelor, don't know how to perform that role. Michelle is no longer an option, no matter how many times I envision scenarios. I need something tangible. It's time.
At the moment I reach this decision, something within me relaxes, a trembling muscle finally unclenching after months of overwrought tension. I feel myself give in to the inevitability of change.