Free Untitled.FR11 by Unknown Author

as a pea, happened—so quick she blipped by it, found it again, thrilled, its edges drawn, dry, for the thinnest space. Warring tendencies, suddenly. The will to halt it and the will to urge it forward. She had no right to turn Marcus’s life which way she would; he’d been kind, loving, given her a child, loved them both, laughed and joked with them at the dinner table. Past, all past. Now he stifled her, drained her life drab, just by continuing to be. She turned away from her healing power and embraced the other, applying it precisely, like a salve, upon the surface and deep throughout. Inside she felt keyed up and torn. She marveled her husband didn’t notice.
    Hand grab.
    She opened her eyes. Marcus was turned to look up at her. Flat dead eyes. He knew. He knew. His moist hands gripped hers.
    “Are you okay?” he said. “What is it?”
    She felt sweat then at her brow and knew the moisture of his hands was really hers. “I’m okay ...” Her voice husky, a need to tack about; she felt exposed. “It’s just that”—I want a divorce—“I think I felt... a tremor in you. Or maybe I’m just imagining it, it could be nothing. You seem not quite as steady as usual.” Throat tightened. “Marcus I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
    “No it’s okay.” His understanding tone, the kindness of it, was breaking her heart. “I’m fine. Don’t cry now, Katt. Come on. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
    Katt allowed his arms to embrace her, laying her head on his shoulder, accepting pats and solace until the grief and guilt abated. She took the pastel Kleenex he offered, dried her tears, blew her nose.
    “Everything all right?”
    Katt nodded. She felt embarrassed and frightened and just a tiny bit superior, pulling the wool undetected—and that deepened her fear about what she was becoming.
    Conner came in then, back from a bike ride, cutting a swath of excitement through the moment, spilling news of a found friend, another biker, anonymous but Conner was sure they’d meet up again. Katt smiled as his father countered with pleased questions. When the recounting had worn down or nearly so, she excused herself to the bedroom, shutting the door so she could be alone.
    Her tummy was tight. She blew her nose again, stared at herself in the mirror over the sink. The image shocked her, as always, with how familiar and how baffling it was. She leaned close, the pores, the lines framing those eyes, that mouth, the backdraw of skin toward her ears. “Katt,” she whispered. “What the fuck are you doing?” The puzzle hung eternally in her head. And yet its solution lay side by side, making it no less a puzzle but speaking its piece as well. “Never you mind about that,” she said, almost as if it made sense. “I’m doing what needs doing.” Her eyes became unbearable then and she turned away.
    Undraping the PC, she switched it and the monitor on. As the memory check numbered by, she stewed in rage at her husband and at her son. Four months of freedom, of a mind open to whims in the wind—closed down in a day, the house shrunk about her, when they came to stay. Mom had phoned, delaying her visit to The Rainbow this morning, that voice a hypnotic hammer, a child-berater. Hovering at the edges had been Katt’s dark and crazy gramma, never mentioned but skirted near, killer of son and husband. How she’d craved that walk to The Rainbow, those moments with Love Bunny, a calm wholeness capped by an intriguing denouement.
    On her monitor, the DOS prompt appeared at last. She ran QuickLink and dialed one of three BBSs she frequented. Symposium. Three phone lines and a sysop who knew what he was doing. FI entered her alias, F2 her password, and she was in, keying past the opening screens. No messages were in her mailbox. Today’s Users listed their aliases, times of log in and out: Swizzler, Gourami, Hunk-fuck, a few new ones Katt didn’t recognize, and good old Darter, on off on off throughout the