EMMETSBURG: Twenty-four

Silver. John didn't mention any of it. He didn't mention any of what had happened with the stranger, nor did he dismiss any of it. It was best not to concern her until he understood just what had happened. And something had happened, something more than he could simply dismiss as a product of a tired mind or his injury. John could still feel where the man had gripped his wrist. The red marks were still there.

He went out in the back yard for a breath of air before turning in. Brilliant silver stars dazzled across a midnight blue sky. The ghostly white plain of the milky way was splashed across that sky, running from near to far horizon. It was much cooler now. John tilted his head skyward and stretched with a yawn. His hand ached something awful. He took a deep breath and returned to the house. A good night's sleep, he figured with put things in their proper place.

Anna turned down the bed and helped John undress. A candle was burning on the night stand setting Anna smooth skin alight as she undressed. John studied her from the door, marveling at the sway of her breasts, the fleeting tightness of muscles in her back, the way a breath reveal and erased the rhythm of her ribs.

As she pulled the loose white nightgown over her head John was suddenly shaken at the commodity of such things. Those moments fell away like raindrops to the ocean, never to return again. This life was fleeing them both, the night’s spent in one another’s embrace far more valuable than any jewel. A part of him wished to tumble into that thoughts, as though it was a beautiful pool and dissolve himself. Yet another part was so terrified at all the paths that thought led him down that John wished to escape and forget her forever.

Laying in bed, his thoughts went to Bert Himmel and how rough he appeared slouched and spent in that chair at his shop. Didn't seem like a good sign the way he fought so hard for breath. John shook away the thought, and was sure old Bert was just fine. Just the same he'd run up to Mallard in the morning. Not that he put any faith in what the stranger had said, if in fact he said anything of the kind (more than likely it was gibberish John weary mind grew into something more). It would give him a chance to talk to Bert's boy, Myron, again about the roof. He'd need the boy's help more than ever now.

That was the last thought he'd recall. Sleep came quickly. Again it would feel like a little bit of death, like descending into a deep and dark and formless void, in which time and thought and dreams refused to venture.