Amateur Detective at Work

My coffee shop was crowded, but of course it was a Friday night. Several of my coworkers came over to chat with me, and I could sense that some of them were feeling sorry for me: Poor Persephone, she must not have a date, and isn’t it sad she’s visiting her work on her day off?

My waitress was Kellie—the one who hates me because John never so much as looked twice at her, and chose to date me instead of her—who slammed my cappuccino down on my sticky little table, causing the coffee to spill. I just smiled at her

The smile seemed to infuriate Kellie even more. It was strange to be hated by someone who didn’t even really know me; I could feel the hatred baking off of her in waves. As I sipped my coffee, briefly wondering if she had spit in it, I noticed she walked over to another waitress, whispering to her and simultaneously looking over at me.

They were talking about me. Suddenly I realized something; Kellie had overestimated herself, and underestimated me. She had simply assumed that since she had always gotten what she wanted, she could just as easily get John, as if he were an expensive purse on sale or something.

I knew that since many of the girls who worked with us liked John, that had made him all the more of a prize to Kellie--she wanted John like a trophy to rub in all the other girls' faces; she would relish the jealousy and attention she would get from everyone. I also realized two other things: She wanted John even more since we had started dating, and that she truly hated me becuase she felt I had somehow stolen him from her.



Kelly was going to be trouble, I could feel it. Unfortunately, I had other things to contend with right now. I was on the lookout for some witches.

I turned my attention to the people in the coffee shop. I spotted a small group of girls sitting across the room; there were three of them, crowded into a booth. They all three had dyed black hair, fish-pale skin, and numerous tattoos and body piercings.

The lone skinny girl of the three sat facing me, across from her two chubby friends. I was certain she was their leader; it was in the way they seemed to defer to her in every manner, and she was the more attractive of the two--which wasn't saying much believe you me.
She was thin, and her dyed black hair had been professionally colored. She had not colored it herself with a box of Clairol from the drugstore.

And her clothes--long black skirt, black silk top, black combat boots, and expensive distressed leather coat--were high-end designer clothes, although I was willing to bet she told people she shopped at thrift stores.

They were all three smoking clove cigarettes, and sipping cup after cup of coffee. It was possible they were only Goth girls out for a night on the town, but I had a sense they were more than some suburban poseurs out for a wide-eyed thrill or two.
The skinny one particularly gave off a menacing vibe. I felt strongly that these girls would lead me to at least someone who would know where some real-deal witches were.

I rummaged through my big purse and pulled out a paperback book, and began to read, keeping one eye on the Goth girls.

After about twenty minutes, the Goths paid their check, and they all three scooted out of the booth to leave. I slammed some money on the table, only leaving that bitch Kellie a fifty-cent tip, and followed them out. Kelly gave me a scowl and hateful glance as I left.

I transferred my bottle of mace to one jean pocket, and slid my razor-sharp pocket knife in my back pocket. I didn't know where they were going or what I was about to walk into, so better to be as safe as possible. Plus, I have other special weapons of my own, just in case.

I joined the flow of light foot traffic, staying an adequate distance behind the Goths. After a few blocks, we were near the river. The girls turned down a dark lonely street, and as I looked up at the place where the girls were going, I gasped.

Then all hell broke loose.

Digging in the Garden District

I went to visit my great Aunt a few days ago. She lives in the Garden District, and that's one of the reasons I cherish going to visit with her.

She has a stately home--one of the more modest townhouses of the District, which boasts some of the most beautiful and graceful mansions in the world--it would have been called a mansion 100 years ago, but by today's standards it would be called a big house.

Let me tell you, it's so beautiful. A big Queen Anne style house, painted white and cream, with a large porch, delicate lace curtains, polished wooden floors, and dainty furniture. it's been photographed for some magazines before,too.

My great Aunt Drusilla married her wealthy husband Corbin, a smart and debonair gentleman who doted on my aunt his whole life, who died ten years ago. But like I said, he was wealthy and a keen handler of their finances, so Drusilla was left with a lot of money, which is how she is able to live so comfortably.

But she deserves it, and she is one of the most sweet and generous people I know. She's such a doll, too: a Southern Belle to the core. Her hair is shoulder length and dyed a pretty shade of sandy blond (she refuses to go gray!), she is 70 years old but looks 60, and she has a darling figure and beautiful hazel eyes. I've always been close to her, and I try to visit her at least twice a year. Now that I'm done with school, I can drive to New Orleans, hop on the streetcar, and visit her more often.

During our visit, I brought up the subject of the distant relative who had been killed. Drusilla didn't know much about her, but she was able to tell me a few things. We sat on the porch, eating dainty sandwiches and drinking iced tea, watching the early-evening pedestrians and the old streetcar clang and rattle by.

My great Aunt's still-pretty face, with her expensive tasteful makeup, became grim and thoughtful. She patted her mouth with a crisp linen napkin, not spilling any crumbs on her smart linen suit. "I remember hearing some distressing rumors about her over the years," she said, shaking her head. I asked what she had heard.

"Oh, her mother told me once that the poor girl was into black magic...devil worship that sort of nonsense, and I believed her, because she was so worried and upset about her daughter."
I kept quiet, wanting her to continue.

"We both know our side of the family is...you know...different," she said, "but your poor cousin was never strong like we are, and she always tried to be something she wasn't."

Yes, I thought. She was like a child, trying to play with something that was dangerous and powerful and evil.

Drusilla looked at her slim gold watch. "Darlin', I've got to run," she said. She had a meeting, one of her many charity luncheons or meetings to preserve the parks or gardens or historical homes. She made me promise to have dinner with her next week; I told her I would and kissed her goodbye.

I walked through the quiet tree-lined cobbled streets, thinking about my poor third cousin. I was pretty certain I might know where to start digging for information. I knew about a few groups in New Orleans, wannabe witches who toyed with black magic and other nonsense.

I sighed; it's people like them who give real witches a bad name. Supposedly, they held rituals that centered around human sacrifices and demonic conjuring for their own personal gain. I had seen a few in the coffee shop from time to time: pasty girls (and boys) with bad complexions and multiple facial and body piercings, layers of thick black eye makeup, head-to-toe black clothing, and dour, leering expressions. Most of them were harmless, pitiable kids, but I had seen a few who gave off evil vibes, and I could tell those people were really bad news.

So, I decide to head to my coffee shop, which I could walk to from here. I could ask some fellow employees about the ersatz witches, and do some snooping around. I looked up at the sky: it was twilight, and the sky was violet and purple and gold. I relished the walk.

I needed to call John to tell him I would be over later tonight, but he would protest and worry about me getting into all this, but in the end, I would get my way. Sometimes I scare myself when I witness how easy it is to exert my will on people, and I never tried that with John, but if he tried to stop me, I would have to make him see it would be alright, and to trust me.

Hey, it's witch power...

Sanctuary

I've been staying in New Orleans for the past week, staying with John at his place, to be exact. I'll come back to that, but first, let's play a little catch-up.

The poor murdered girl I found in that old abandoned house? Well turns out, she was a distant cousin of mine. Talk about a blow. My family is very upset, as am I; I was not expecting that...

I never knew her that well; we had only met maybe twice when we were kids, but she seemed like a sweet girl. She was a little wild, the black sheep of the family, you could say. Like many of the women in my family, she had a touch of psychic ability; lucky at buying lottery tickets, knowing family secrets, that sort of thing. She drank and dabbled in drugs, probably to quiet her brain and deal with something totally beyond her control.

The frequency of my dreams is wearing on me: dead relatives invading my sleep, doom predictions, warnings, foreboding messages. The other night, my great grandmother appeared to me, young and pretty, bewitching in a long white gown, admonishing me for not calling on my gifts and using the spells that could help me and the other women. Other women?

Like all ghosts, she vanished before revealing the important details. The crazy dead: loving to haunt you, but so unreliable sometimes.

One night, I awoke to find myself in the attic. I had sleepwalked into the hight dusty attic, sweating and sticky from the heat and the layers of dust coating my slick skin. I looked down to see I was holding the old leathery bound book of spells; my family's Book of Shadows. The pages were so delicate and old with age, pages and pages of stiff parchment filled with ancient incantations and various grimoires. I carried it begrudgingly back down to my bedroom, stowing it under my bed.

Soon after, I told John I was thinking about staying in a nice hotel in New Orleans for a few days, just to get away from the locals' stares and questions and bad dreams. The next day, he came to my house, told me to pack a bag, and whisked me away to an opulent French Quarter hotel for two days and nights! There was a huge tub in the Parisian bathroom, with its beautiful gold and red wallpaper and decor, and a massive sturdy bed with a thick down comforter and soft sheets. It was so exquisite to do it in a new bed, in a new place. (Details in the next post, I promise!)

After we left the hotel, he coaxed me into staying with him for a few days, but I didn't need much convincing. It's been so much fun with him; I feel safe. It's kinda like playing house, cooking and picking out movies to watch, walking together through the shops in the French Quarter holding hands, and not being able to wait until we both slip into bed together each night. That first touch in the dark, the weight of him on top of me, making my skin burn so hot; sometimes rough and fast and hard, yet always ending in soft embraces. Like a raging fire, slowly fading to coals of glowing embers.

Night Mares

I spent the day soaking up some much needed alone and quiet time. Lately, so much has been happening, there's been too much noise and activity. I feel like I've been swooped up inside of a cyclone, spinning and whirling out of my control. I need things to be still and silent.

So today I spent a leisurely day off. First, I got up at the crack of noon, made myself a huge bowl of sugary cereal, which I ate with gluttonous abandon, and washed it down with a big glass of Pepsi. I fixed a cup of coffee--with lots of sugar and big globs of flavored creamer--and took it out on our wide and deep front porch. I relished the quiet, and it wasn't too hot under the shaded porch, plus there are many big ancient trees that provide a leafy shade from the blazing sun. It was nice to sit and smoke, and sip the hot coffee, absorbing the serene noises of nature.

Later this afternoon, I gathered up a thick book and lay under the trees reading; lulled by the warm sunlight and the soft grass, I fell into a Rip Van Winkle-esque asleep. After my nap, I spent the rest of tonight watching TV: I needed the mindless white noise of the television wasteland. So, before I plop into bed and fall asleep, I'll fill you in on the events of the past few days.

After that memorable steamy night at John's apartment, I didn't see him for almost a whole week. We were working almost opposite schedules. He had left a message on my cell phone, telling me he had broken things off with his girlfriend. He also added after a pause "I had a lot of fun the other night, with you...I can't stop thinking about you."

Oh, Lord. when I heard that, I felt my heart do a somersault, and I swear I could feel a million butterfly wings beating and fluttering in my stomach.

Unfortunately, I felt his absence from work acutely, and this made me feel many conflicting emotions: fear, disgust with myself, hopelessness, and events unfolding that are out of my control.

Anyway, yesterday I worked a rare day shift, which left me with a whole night off. I was mopey when I thought of not being able to see John, and then got very angry with myself for becoming so dependent on a man so quickly. So I decided to see if my brothers wanted to go out to dinner and then to the little rustic bar a few miles from our house. Just as I was going to look for them, our phone rang. I tried not to notice how I sprang for it after the first ring. I calmly said "Hello?" after two rings, and John's voice greeted me on the other end of the line.

He explained he was back in town, and wanted to know if I wanted to perhaps go to dinner and maybe a movie (the traditional American first date). " Oh, I'd love to, but I sort of already made plans tonight," I said.

What the hell was I doing! But I knew. I really liked him, and that scared me more than any stranger lurking in the dark for me.

He was silent for a few seconds, then in an unconvincing casual tone, asked me with whom I was going out. I told him my brothers and I hadn't seen each other in a while, and needed to spend some quality sibling time together. He was obviously relieved by this new information, but I felt terrible, but it was kind of the truth.

"Well, would you mind if I came along? I'd like to meet your brothers."

"Listen, why don't you come over for dinner tonight, that way you could meet my whole family." I groaned inwardly; what the hell was I doing? But he sounded so happy and thrilled at my invitation. I told him what time to be here, and we hung up. I raced to tell my mother and father and two brothers that I was having a guest for supper, and I begged my two big brothers to go along if my "friend" asked about any prior plans we had. They shrugged and said sure, no problem. My Mom was looking at me, and I didn't like that knowing smile she threw me, not one bit. I could feel my face turn a violent shade of red!


I took a shower, making sure to shave my legs, and toweled off as fast as possible. I dried my hair, applying some gel and anti-frizz serum to my curls. My hair is naturally curly, and the Louisiana humidity wreaks havoc on my hair.

But tonight, my hair actually looked pretty, hanging around my head in full ringlets and curls. It's a dark brown, and in the sun it has dark-red tints to it. I applied some blush and lip gloss, and carefully brushed a thin layer of mascara on my eyelashes. It took me a long time to decide what to wear: finally I decided to wear a dress, since we were having a guest to supper.

I selected this really cute bohemian sun dress; it's a sheer black number with a Moroccan-type print. The front dips kinda low, but just showing a hint of decollatage, and the short sleeves lightly flow from the shoulders, and the length hits a little below my knees. It's very pretty, and it has a gypsy feel to it that I love. I paired it with some delicate gold sandals, and a dangling pair of earrings.

I made a final inspection in the mirror: the clothes were good, and the dress hugged my waist before flaring out, making it look tiny and feminine. I guess my figure is okay, but I'm never really happy with my physical appearance. My curly hair is a bit unruly, not blond and straight; my skin is very pale, and I tend to burn in the sun. My eyes are too large for my face, and they're a dark brown, not a clear sky-blue, like my Dad's eyes, although people always complement me on their color and shape.

I walked down to help my mother with dinner, setting the table and making the salad. I love dinner at my house, it's always been a big deal. We all try to dress up for Sunday dinner, or when we have company, and we always sit together in the spacious dimly-lit dining room when everyone is home for holidays or summers. For special occasions, my mother will use the best china, and the silver candlesticks, the cut-glass crystal glassware, and the silver that's been in my father's family for over one-hundred years.

I sat in the parlor to wait for John, opening a book my mother was reading, careful not to lose her bookmarked page. When the doorbell rang, my father answered the door. He was polite, introducing John to my mother, then to Kevin and Paul, my brothers, but he would be watching every gesture, listening carefully to his words, sizing up and evaluating before rendering a verdict.

John and I sat in the parlor, drinking iced tea; it was all so southern, but that's how we do things in my family. I smiled at the thought of sitting in the parlor with my gentleman caller; at that moment I wished I could wear a long belle gown, with a wide full petticoat underneath.

Supper went well; my brothers liked John a lot, and so did my parents. I could tell my Dad and brothers approved that he was no stranger to manual labor, as he grew up on his parents' working farm. Also, the two guys my age I had brought home during my teenage years had been sensitive and what they would call "artsy-fartsy" types, and of course I never have mentioned my trysts with older men, for my brothers would hunt them down and mash them into hamburger meat. My Mom was happy to find out that he was a southerner, and was obviously well mannered. I was relieved!

After supper, I gave him a tour of our big old house, and then we took a walk around the property. He explained how he had talked to his ex-girlfriend in person when she came in for a visit, and broken it off with her. He said she was pretty upset, and she had yelled and thrown a lamp at his head when he tried to tell her it was for the best.

I told him I had broken up with my boyfriend via e-mail, and he looked a little horrified. "I know, that's not very good break-up etiquette, but I just don't want to see him in person," I said. I felt awful; I never have gotten around to ending things with Brad. Look, I'll get around to it, but I have a lot going on, and I do so hate confrontations of that sort.
We ended up in one my favorite spots: under the giant oak tree, next to the swamp. "You look really pretty tonight," he said.

"Thanks," I said uncomfortably.

He narrowed his eyes at me, "What, don't you believe me?"

"I just don't take complements well, I...they make me uncomfortable." I felt like an idiot, and I could feel my face turn red. Good thing it was dark.

"I don't think you realize how beautiful you are, 'Seph," he said. He cupped my chin, gently turning me to face him. "You're like a beautiful night flower. With your pale skin, and your long dark hair. Your eyes are so big and dark, they seem to glow with their own light. "You're... luminous."

I cupped his face with my hands, and kissed him. The kisses were long and deep and sugary-sweet; I felt my lips might dissolve and melt, like cotton candy when it hits your tongue.

We only kissed, and after an hour or so, he said he should walk me back to my house. I sighed. I remembered sleeping with James under this same tree, and winced. What better way to blot out that memory than to have Jason in this same spot?

Instead I let him walk me to the front door, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him goodnight. We both worked tomorrow night, but he said on Saturday he was taking me out, and wouldn't take no for an answer.

I watched his car pull away until I couldn't see the red glow of his brake lights, then slipped inside.

I padded upstairs, washed my face and brushed my teeth, and crawled into bed. I was still smiling when I fell asleep.

It was a horrible dream. I was back at the abandoned Cajun cabin, and someone grabbed me and threw me to the floor. He had a huge hand wrapped around my throat, choking off my air so I couldn't scream. It was too dark to see his face, but the outline of his head was big, and he had massive shoulders. A sliver of moonlight glinted off the large knife as it cut open my flimsy nightgown. I lay there naked and terrified. I knew he was going to rape me and then kill me, and I struggled as hard as I could to get away, but I was pinned down, unable to escape. I reached out with my mind to do...something. I looked up and saw the dead woman wearing my grandmother's shawl, sitting in a dusty old rocking chair, knitting and rocking back and forth. She looked at me, just as the knife's blade slid between my ribcage, like a searing hot poker slicing through butter, and I screamed...

I woke up choking back the scream. I was shaking and crying. I ran into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face.

Back in my bedroom, I opened the gallery window and stepped out, lighting a cigarette with shaky hands, letting the cool night air wash over me. Eventually, I began to calm down.

It was a while before I could fall asleep, because the girl in my dream was haunting me. There was something familiar about her, and I knew I had seen her somewhere before.

I switched off the light and pulled the covers up to my chin. I thought about the word nightmares. Night Mares: dreadful grave-black demonic horses that gallop into your dream mind, carrying fearsome images and unearthing you worst buried memories. They have blazing red eyes, snarling mouths, and their nostrils snort and steam...

That was my last thought before sleep took me again that night.

Deeper

I've been walking around in a daze since Saturday night. Just floating along on a silken cloud of unreality, through a lovely fog of an opium dream.

At least, that's what this feels like. I can't concentrate on the most simple tasks, like folding laundry, or brushing my teeth, or remembering to check the mail. I do all these things, but I'll catch myself almost leaving the house without my car keys, and arriving to work with no memory of getting in the car, starting the car, and driving to work. It's unnerving...

I've gotta snap out of it. Part of the reason for all this is that I have welcomed it. I've flung myself into the welcoming distraction of John with open arms. It's like the fictional river of Lethe; I waded in its blissful dark waters at first, then decided to swim around in it a while.

I was pretty upset when I went to John's on Saturday night. We both had a rare weekend night off from work, and I was nervous as hell. I must have tried on ten different outfits before deciding on a pair of cute denim shorts, a snug tee shirt and a pair of fashionable Converse shoes, and some light makeup. I wanted to look very casual, in case he thought I was pathetic and thought this was a date!

I was worried about the guy who had chased me, plus I had had some strange and unsettling dreams since that night, which I'll disclose another time.

I arrived there hot and sweaty; my air conditioner doesn't work that well, and it was so damn hot that night. He looked delectable in a grayish t-shirt and jeans, and his shaggy light brown hair was freshly-washed and still damp. He hugged me at the door, and I breathed in the clean masculine scent of him: soap and shampoo and a light whiff of his sweat, which smelled good not icky, all which combined to make quite an aphrodisiac. I thought I was going to swoon!

His apartment was nice, and it was in an expensive building, so he or his family must have money. I marveled at how neat it was for a bachelor apartment. He came back with two beers, and then he popped in a movie.

We started talking, and eventually lost interest in the movie. After another beer, he moved closer to me on the couch, and I propped my legs up in his lap. I kept wondering why I was there, and if he just wanted an easy piece of ass while his girlfriend was away. But I knew better; it's almost impossible for people to fool me, and I could feel his guilt over his feelings for me, which ran deeper that just physical attraction.

We started to kiss, and I lay back on the couch, wrapping my arms around him, and blotting out any more thoughts of boyfriends, girlfriends, guilt, and dead bodies.

He was a great kisser; they were the kind of kisses that you feel way down in the pit of your stomach. I rubbed my hands through his hair, and boldly raised my hips into the hardness that I could feel pressing against me.

He pulled away, and sat up. I knew what he was feeling, and what he was going to say. He told me he was going to break up with his girlfriend, and he didn't think it was right to start something with me until he had taken care of that; he didn't want things to begin under any sleazy circumstances, because he liked me a lot. I was warmed by his declaration, but I was also a little disappointed. I was fiercely turned on, and I knew I would have let things go further.

A twinge of anger coursed through me, and I asked him why he even asked me over here if that was the case. I was mad, and worked up, and the events of the past couple of weeks had come to a head, so I grabbed my purse to storm out. He held my arms so I wouldn't leave, and then he hugged me to him. I could feel hot tears threatening to pour out my eyes, but held back; I hate to cry, especially in front of people. He said he was sorry, that he just wanted to see me. I couldn't be angry with him, after all I knew the situation too, and why had I come if not for the same reasons. Suddenly, he grabbed the rest of the beer, "Follow me."

It was dark outside, but still hot as six shades of hell. We walked to his building's pool, and seeing that no one was around, stripped down to our underwear and dove into the inviting blue water. It was deliciously cool; the moonlight glittered on the dark blue water as he peeled off my panties, my legs wrapped snugly around his hips. When he touched me between my legs, I felt the heat radiate out; hot against the deep cool water. We kissed and touched and rubbed and licked until our skin started to prune, and then we heard drunken laughter as people made their way to the pool for a night swim.

Covering up with towels, we quickly relinquished our pool to the intruders. Back in the apartment, I just took off the wet bra and panties, dried off and got dressed, stowing my undies in my purse. Before I left, he made arrangements to take me on a "real date" when he got back into town (some family-related trip or something).

I drove home elated, feeling naughty at the thought of my bra and panties in my purse. My body was still tingling from pleasure and excitement. I had never felt this way about anyone, and I'd do anything to keep the high going.

I can feel myself getting in deeper every second, like wading into the deep cold end of the pool without knowing it, and remembering that you're not the best swimmer.

Strangers in the Night

Up until dawn crept across the sky; I was a small child the last time I watched the sun come up over the bayou: the delicate darkness of the sky painted with swatches of glorious violent smears of red and gold, as the sun rose in a blazing wash of fiery orange.
As the sun began to rise, already hot and near-unbearable, I pulled down the shades, drew the curtains and went to sleep.

I didn't intend to stay up all night... After my shift at work, I and some other people from work walked down to a bar near the coffeehouse for a few beers. John (see previous post!) came with us, and we sat beside each other, having our own private conversation as the others talked and laughed, their words becoming louder and more boisterous as the empty beer bottles piled up on the sticky table.

As we talked about all the things we liked--movies music, books, hobbies--I was surprised at how much we had in common. After four expensive, stout beers, I was buzzing and giddy with alcohol and adrenaline and hormones, and I knew I needed to slow down if I was going to drive home. The bar was getting too noisy and smoky and crowded, and through the beer haze, I could still pick up on people's feelings. Kellie, for instance: I could feel her hate and anger for me.

She has a huge crush on John, hell most of the girls do, and she had pretty much marked him as "hers" from the moment he was hired. But I knew he had no interest in her, which was confusing, because she is very pretty, albeit shallow and mean. What really confused me was why he was interested in me. I could feel his guilt over it, because of his girlfriend, but there is this connection and pull between us, and it's like nothing else matters.

Anyway, he asked me to come over on Saturday night to watch a movie, an "we're just friends and coworkers" invitation, and I said, sure why not.

It was getting late, so I said goodnight to everyone since I was getting drunk. John paid for my beers and walked me to my car.

As I was getting into my car, I could feel that he wanted to say or do something to prolong the moment, but he didn't, and I was too stubborn to say anything either, so we simply said goodnight and I drove away, not looking forward to the long drive on the dark road, cautiously looking out for those New Orleans drunk drivers.

I was so wound up when I got home; I drank some water and popped two Tylenol. I got undressed, washed my face, and changed into my gauzy white chemise, so light and comfy and cool.

I sat on the wide front porch, smoking a cigarette, and I searched for something to take my mind off John.

The girl's body that was found has still not been identified, or the police are not releasing the information. They questioned me about how I had found her, and that took all night, what with all the milling around and questions. I told them the truth, and the detective said he would be in touch if and when they needed me again. My mom was upset and worried for me, and my dad has hired some security people to patrol our property occasionally. So, I eventually started to feel pretty safe, what with my brothers huddling around me protectively.

I put on some flip-flops and walked down to the little house where she was found.

I relished the smells and sounds all around me; the night was alive, and the moon bathed the world with its bright silvery glow. I've always loved the night, and my body is so much more alive and aware than in the daytime.

I twirled and spun around like a wild wood nymph, intoxicated from the moonlight and magic. I wanted to be naked and roll in the moist grass, as steam rose from the ground, creating a fairy mist.

I lay under the huge oak tress, looking at the gray Spanish moss hanging from the branches like witches' mossy hair. I took off the short thin gown, and I laughed, deliciously naked and belonging to the night and the trees and grass and bayou. Images of pagan altars, and dripping thick woods where trees were worshiped and orgies were held under the full moon; wicked thoughts of him on top of me, sweaty and hard, sliding deep and sweet...

I moaned with ecstasy, adding soft cries and moans with the night sounds: a mad chorus of lust and whispers and abandon.

A noise tore me out of my fantasy; I sat up and dressed. I knew I had heard something, coming from the direction of the abandoned Cajun house where the girl was found dead.

I was terrified suddenly; something deep inside me was telling me to run, that whoever was there was dangerous--and had been watching me.

I ran barefoot, gripping my shoes in my hand. I prayed I wouldn't trip and fall, like those dumb unfortunate women in the horror movies. I heard footsteps behind me, quickly closing the distance.

I saw the light of our porch and gasped with relief as I saw my brother pulling into the gravel driveway. I stood trying to catch my breath, standing out of my brother's line of sight under the trees. I didn't hear anything; whoever had been there was gone.

I decided not to call the police, after all, what could be done?

I know that I have to figure out who this girl was, and why that person wanted to come after me. I could feel...something. Not anything like a normal person, but more like a presence of nothingness, as if he was just a shell devoid of feelings of love and hate. Blank.

I showered, letting the cool water beat down my neck and back; even after I had crawled under my soft sheets, I couldn't find sleep. Too much had happened, and I was still worked up, so I read a book until dawn peeped out of the dark sky.

I got about nine hours of sleep, so I feel much better. I have to go: I'm working tonight, and the last thing I need is to be alone with my thoughts.

Still, I told my dad that I thought I heard someone snooping around last night; I don't want my family to get hurt, and he knows people who can keep a collective eye on things.

I'm off...

Of Lust and Lattes

I'll fill you in on what happened with the discovery of the body, but first I want to talk about a jolt of seismic proportions in my love life.

Okay, the thing is, I have a boyfriend; he works for a great company, and he's nice and handsome, but I'm not in love with him anymore. I started feeling this way about a year ago, and I just don't know how to break it off with him. Worse, he's pressuring me about marriage, and I've held him at bay by telling him I want to be done with school and have a stable career first, and that's partially true. But I realized I don't want to get married to him--now or ever.

I haven't been to visit him since I came home for the summer--he lives in New Orleans--or called him. The last time I spoke with him on the phone, he tried to get me to stay with him for a month in New Orleans. I told him in a tentative voice that I wanted to spend my summer alone, just relaxing with my family, and maybe find some piddly summer job. I thought that would be a big hint, since I just don't have the stones to break it off with him.

Anyway, he got quiet, and then muttered something under his breath about how I should look him up when I can squeeze him into my busy schedule.

Since then, I have gotten loads of e-mails about how much he misses me, and how he's going to come visit me this week (unfortunately, he knows where I live). So it looks as if I'm going to have to just break up with him by e-mail. I know that's horrible relationship etiquette, but if i try to do it face-to-face, I'll wimp out. Dammit. I hate him for making me have to do this; why can't he read between the lines?

He's about ten years older than I; I never date a guy who is "my age", I always date men who are older. In fact, I dated a guy once who was 40, not a big deal, except I was 20 at the time! I've always preferred older men for all the reasons a younger woman would: maturity, self-control, success, money, culture, a sense of accomplishment and goals, and more sexual experience. But it seems like I always end up rejecting some of them for being too patriarchal or too ready to settle down, which is twisted, because that's why I seek them out in the first place! I'm not blind to the fact that I have father-figure issues; my dad loves me, but he wasn't around much during my formative years, and I was always a Daddy's girl.

But I don't blame him or my mother for anything, they were just kids themselves when they had me and my brothers.

Anyway, I started working at this little coffeehouse in New Orleans a couple of weeks ago; just a part-time gig, mainly because I hate to just sit around with nothing to do all day. It's a great place, and I love working there. There's a guy that works there, who is also a college student h0me for the summer. I really like him, and I know he feels the same for me. We both started to talk and laugh and connect with each other whilst schlepping soy lattes and frothy cappuccinos to seemingly oh-so cool poseurs too busy to look up from their laptops.

However, there are several complicating elements: he has a girlfriend; I have a boyfriend; he's only 21; oh, and he's only 21!!

I know that's only 7 years difference, but still I feel weird about going out with someone who's so much younger. I've never really dated a guy that young!

But I am soooo wildly attracted to him. His girlfriend is off in dental school or something, and he's going to law school or med school (can't remember which one!) in a year or so. Every time I see him at work, I become more and more drawn to him. Of course he has that young man clueless immaturity and silliness , but that's to be expected. But he totally lacks any young man narcissism and meanness. I really want to sleep with him; the other day I "accidentally" brushed up against him, and a current of lust zinged through me, making me hyper aware of the texture of my panties against my hot skin; I suddenly started squirming, and felt like I might have to go "take care" of myself in the bathroom.

I keep having dreams about the two of us sleeping together: blurry sensual pictures and textures of his twinkling dark blue eyes, and a flash of white teeth under shapely lips, and of sweaty limbs entangled in a feverish embrace.

I'm actually looking forward to being off for the next two days and not seeing him: this is torture! This enslavement to the slightest smoldering glance, or the way his shaggy hair lays against his masculine-shaped neck, or the way his hips stand at a certain angle. It's like I can't concentrate on the everyday ordinary tasks.

I've gone on for longer than I wanted about this, but next post I promise to bring you up to date on the mayhem of the dead body and all that I've found out so far.