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

The artist parked his bike underneath an overhang by the garage. Scott pulled up to the curb, leaving the engine running, then unfastened his seat belt. He watched and waited. As the artist pulled off his helmet, Scott leapt out of the car, charged across the driveway, and slugged him on the side of the head. The artist fell backward into some ferns, his eyes wide with terror, covering his head with his arms as Scott kicked his thighs, chest, and stomach. “You leave my girlfriend alone. She’s mine, faggot.”

The front door swung open. A middle-aged man, muscular, clean-shaven, with close-cropped hair, stepped out. “Hey, what’s going on here?” he asked, his voice high-pitched and tense. “Tommy, are you all right?”

In an instant, Scott realized his mistake. He staggered back, aghast at the blood on his hand, the crumpled figure on the ground, the sweat dripping in rivulets under his jacket, the acrid smell of fear seeping from his body.

He turned and ran back to his car.

“There are laws against gay-bashing, you damn Nazi!” the artist’s lover yelled as Scott’s car screeched down the hill.

Something was changing in her and she liked it. By altering her routines, she realized how stuck she’d become. She’d forgotten how to see, how to be alive to her surroundings. Now she was developing a new life, trying new activities, finding new friends. She had more energy. Life seemed filled with opportunities. She dashed across parking lots, afraid yet exhilarated, and it must’ve shown in her face because people noticed her, regarding her with interest as if this chance meeting might suddenly catapult their lives into a new direction.

She enjoyed her drawing class so much she signed up for creative writing. She threw herself into it as if making up for lost time. There was a whole world out there of things to do and learn. Just waiting for her.

Yet despite this new feeling of empowerment, she sensed sometimes that she was being watched, a tingling, chilling feeling as if a light fog surrounded her. It was scary and exciting at the same time. She thought maybe Scott was following her, but she never saw him. Maybe it was only his memory, a threat lingering in the imagination, like fear of the ocean after seeing a movie filled with terrifying shark attacks.

Maybe she missed him.

Many times after work, Scott drove by her house to see if her light was on. If she wasn’t home yet, he parked in the alley and waited.

As he sat drinking a beer, watching, he remembered that when they first started spending the night together, she wouldn’t sleep in the same bed with him; after sex, she would pull a quilt out of the closet and go to sleep on the couch in the living room. She said she couldn’t fall asleep in the same bed with anybody, but after a few months, she began dozing off beside him, and he remembered how warm and happy that made him feel.

All it took was time and patience, he told himself. He fingered the ring box in the pocket of his jacket, the old leather soft as suede where it had cracked and worn away. He’d carried the box with him ever since the day at Geoffrey’s because he knew, when the time was right, she would agree to wear it.

This was a Friday night; he knew she didn’t have a class. The front house was dark and he figured the sculptor must be out. It got to be ten-thirty and she still hadn’t shown up. She must be on a date, he guessed, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he got. She’d be sorry if she brought anyone home. Those bruises he gave that faggot art teacher were just a warmup.

As it got to be around half-past eleven, he became worried. He finished his third beer, his last, and wished he had another even though it didn’t taste good to him anymore. Maybe she was already there in the house, injured. Maybe she’d fainted and hit her head, or maybe she’d taken too many sleeping pills and suffocated in her pillow. He suddenly felt incredibly anxious, as if crabs were trying to scratch their way out of his stomach.

Dammit! He was going in.

Just as he was about to flip open the car door, he saw her headlights turn up the alley.

She closed the front door to her apartment, but instead of turning on the lights, she opened the blinds to let in the moonlight. She wanted to savor the magic of the evening, that slightly tipsy feeling after a first date, aroused, knowing he’d been interested, but not yet hot with lust; she was intoxicated with the possibility of desire. It was her first date since she’d broken up with Scott, a blind date set up by a friend from work. At first glance she thought she could never be interested in him, but by the end of the evening, after an extended hug which neither of them seemed to be able to break, she was surprised by a powerful attraction.