From the book too?” and he said “Yes, but originally from an old poem. About a woman who meets and has sex with a stranger” and I said “Oh, ok...�� again.“O Jenny's wet, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry” he said.“From the poem” he said. “Do you like poetry?” and I said “Not really” and he wouldn't let go of the book like he didn't really want me to have it or just didn't want me to take it and leave and then he said “That's too bad. Some poems can be quite... erotic” and suddenly I felt this tingling. Then finally, my heart pounding its rhythm into a crescendo, as I hear the third step, many minutes later. I am up. On my feet. No weapon at hand, I find an umbrella; good for rain, but a poor choice for phantoms. At my door I listen. Listen for any telltale sounds. Nothing but the sounds of the house and wind. Who, who could be in my house? Did I lock the back door? Did I close the garage door? Memories of days long past flooding my senses. Memories of him. There, his smell, wafting into my. More

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