Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

“You know how much I think of you—”

“No, tell me,” Scott said, his smile crooked, a smile he’d perfected in front of the mirror as a teenager to pick up girls, a smile that had become part of him, which he now used to sell houses. “You know I can never hear enough about me.” He got her to smile back and it flooded his body with warmth.

“You’re wonderful,” she said. “You’re generous and kind and handsome—”

“And a sexual athlete.”

“That too. You’re the greatest guy I’ve ever met.”

“Gee, thanks,” he said, not used to blushing, his body tingling all over. He felt a flash of heat in his groin and felt like leaping over the table and taking her right there.

“But I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

It was like someone slammed a two-by-four in his face, his ears suddenly pounding, his dinner burning in his chest, threatening to erupt. He was speechless.

“It’s not that I don’t care for you. I do. But I don’t feel comfortable anymore. I think we should stop before things get out of hand.”

“Out of hand?” he nearly shouted. “How can things get out of hand? I want to marry you.”

It was her turn to be surprised, but she shook her head and said, “No, it’s too late for that.”

“Too late? What are you talking about? You’ve been screwing someone else?” Several diners looked over at their table with raised eyebrows.

“No, nothing like that. Calm down, Scott. There’s no one else.”

“Then what? I don’t understand. Tell me.” A shiver went through his body; he felt he might suddenly lose control, as if he were driving on ice.

“I had a dream.”

Scott paused, then laughed too loudly. Everything would be all right after all. “So... you had a dream?”

“Not just a dream. It was horrible. Last time you slept over.”

He felt a nastiness creep over him, something like jealousy but different. He pushed it aside. She was obviously upset. He should listen. “What was your dream about?”

“I dreamed you killed me.”

Scott paused a second — thinking — then laughed, warmly, confidently. How he loved her, her face so serious, her neck taut and vulnerable. He wanted to reach over and kiss that spot that drove her crazy, where her neck joined her shoulders. “It’s a metaphor, don’t you see? It’s so obvious. You’re afraid if we marry, you’ll lose part of yourself... that something of yourself will be killed off.” He took her hand. “That won’t happen. I promise you.”

Laura slowly slipped her hand away. “In my dream, you became obsessed with me, stalked me, then brutally murdered me.”

The word “murder” stung him, took his breath. “I can’t believe it,” he sputtered. “You’re more afraid of commitment than I am and I’m the playboy of L.A. I’m the guy Hefner publishes for.”

The corners of her mouth turned down in a slight frown. “When I look at you, even now, I see your face just as you were about to kill me, your eyes filled with loathing. I don’t want you ever to hate me that much. I couldn’t bear it.”

He saw her lips trembling, her forearms folded across her chest, her hands cupping her shoulders. Her fear stabbed deep into his heart. “Laura, darling. I love you. I could never hate you. It was just a dream.”

“It wasn’t just a dream. It felt real.”

“Forget about it, sweetheart.”

“I can’t forget about it. Besides, it doesn’t matter if it was just a dream. I’ll always wonder when you’ll start hating me... when you’ll hate me enough to murder me.”

Again, that word. He suppressed a small ulcer of anger blooming beneath his ribs. He had to make her believe him. “Laura, I’m here, in the flesh and blood.” He paced his words deliberately. “All I can think about is how much I love you. I want to marry you. I want to have children with you. I want to live with you until we’re old and ugly and our dentures clack together when we kiss. I was going to ask you tonight. I even have the ring in my pocket.”

He reached into his sport coat, pulled out the cracked leather ring box, and opened it. An antique diamond ring, simple and exquisite. He set it in the middle of the table for her to look at, then reached over and gently caressed her left hand.

Her fingers were shaking, cold as ice. He looked deep into her eyes. “Who are you going to believe? A dream or me?”

I’m not a pervert. I don’t go sneaking around peeking into people’s windows. But if someone leaves their blinds open after dark, or if they get up early in the morning and open their sliding-glass doors to let out the dog, I look. It’s impossible not to.

So about eight months ago, I noticed a young woman who got up as early as I do. She lived at the end of the marina peninsula in an older two-story Craftsman that was covered with bougainvillea like a pink cloud. She lived in the rental unit over the garage. Her windows looked out over the channel, and she had a deck with planters of white roses and lavender.