with their dishes. When she had finished she returned to the table and picked up her book, anxious to return to the comforting isolation of the little bedroom.
Thirsty, he rose from his chair and followed her into the kitchen, and poured himself a second glass of juice. Standing there, leaning back against the counter, his gaze drifted to her, just a couple feet from him. He noticed a small hole in the shirt he had given her to wear, just over her right shoulder blade. Through it he could see a shaded inch or two of her pale skin. The torn fabric was curling and fraying, seemingly wanting to curl and curl until her whole back was bare, fray and fray until every last little crinkly thread had abandoned her, baring her back, her shoulders, her arms, and more.
Her hidden collarbones. Her breasts. Her belly. All her hot, soft flesh. Almost in a trance he moved in behind her, leaning past her to set his empty glass in the sink where she was rinsing the soap from their dishes. For a moment he forgot himself, absorbed by the sight of the wispy little hairs at the back of her neck that had escaped from the rubber bands holding the rest of her tresses prisoner in two neat pigtails, the way those 59
wayward wisps quivered in the soft breeze of his breath, the way that breath altered the smooth topography of her pale neck, raising delicate goose bumps.
He snapped out of it. Stepped back and walked off. He disappeared into his room and closed the door. And then he was careful to be perfectly quiet.
Under a tenuous truce they passed their day. If he caught her watching him he immediately suspected her of mentally recording his activities for illicit purposes—
private or public. When she noticed his maleficent eyes on her she felt a flood of fear rush her veins, feeling her vulnerability, trapped there with this moody stranger in the remote isolation of his cabin. In reality, both were doing their best to keep quietly to themselves, each watching the other only when they sensed they were being watched.
For her, that first long day, and for days after, every second in his presence felt like a moment of infinite peril. Each time she went into her little bedroom she feared she would hear his heavy tread behind her, feel him pushing her into the room. Each time she emerged she feared finding him there, in the hall, just outside her door, ready to take hold of her, push her against the hallway wall. Tear his clothes from her body, press himself to her, force her down onto the floor.
She tortured herself endlessly with thoughts of him taking hold of her somewhere, holding her against the wall by her throat, staring at her with a look of immense self-satisfaction in the knowledge of his absolute power over her, of her utter helplessness alone with him there in his cabin. Her look of fear, the trembling of her body, the panicked tempo of her breath would make him smile cruelly as he took the zipper of her sweatshirt between his thumb and forefinger. He would watch her face 60
contort with terrible fear as he began slowly pulling the zipper down. Then, still holding her by the throat with one hand, with the other he would slowly, calmly strip off first the sweatshirt, then, his huge fist clenched around the hem of the t-shirt he would pull it up, up, and over her head and it would give her up as he pulled it toward him and down, sliding it easily off her arms…
She could not even imagine fighting him. Every thought of defending herself led, involuntarily, painfully, to thoughts of his brutal retribution. Her pathetic efforts to hit him or push him away met with a rain of terrible, violent blows. If she thought of hiding a knife on her person, which she might use to fend off an attack, the image of him snatching it away from her, then using it on her, slashing her face and body, forced itself into her mind. If she pulled the gun on him, she was sure, he would turn the tables and terrorize her, holding the gun on her as he
Thirsty, he rose from his chair and followed her into the kitchen, and poured himself a second glass of juice. Standing there, leaning back against the counter, his gaze drifted to her, just a couple feet from him. He noticed a small hole in the shirt he had given her to wear, just over her right shoulder blade. Through it he could see a shaded inch or two of her pale skin. The torn fabric was curling and fraying, seemingly wanting to curl and curl until her whole back was bare, fray and fray until every last little crinkly thread had abandoned her, baring her back, her shoulders, her arms, and more.
Her hidden collarbones. Her breasts. Her belly. All her hot, soft flesh. Almost in a trance he moved in behind her, leaning past her to set his empty glass in the sink where she was rinsing the soap from their dishes. For a moment he forgot himself, absorbed by the sight of the wispy little hairs at the back of her neck that had escaped from the rubber bands holding the rest of her tresses prisoner in two neat pigtails, the way those 59
wayward wisps quivered in the soft breeze of his breath, the way that breath altered the smooth topography of her pale neck, raising delicate goose bumps.
He snapped out of it. Stepped back and walked off. He disappeared into his room and closed the door. And then he was careful to be perfectly quiet.
Under a tenuous truce they passed their day. If he caught her watching him he immediately suspected her of mentally recording his activities for illicit purposes—
private or public. When she noticed his maleficent eyes on her she felt a flood of fear rush her veins, feeling her vulnerability, trapped there with this moody stranger in the remote isolation of his cabin. In reality, both were doing their best to keep quietly to themselves, each watching the other only when they sensed they were being watched.
For her, that first long day, and for days after, every second in his presence felt like a moment of infinite peril. Each time she went into her little bedroom she feared she would hear his heavy tread behind her, feel him pushing her into the room. Each time she emerged she feared finding him there, in the hall, just outside her door, ready to take hold of her, push her against the hallway wall. Tear his clothes from her body, press himself to her, force her down onto the floor.
She tortured herself endlessly with thoughts of him taking hold of her somewhere, holding her against the wall by her throat, staring at her with a look of immense self-satisfaction in the knowledge of his absolute power over her, of her utter helplessness alone with him there in his cabin. Her look of fear, the trembling of her body, the panicked tempo of her breath would make him smile cruelly as he took the zipper of her sweatshirt between his thumb and forefinger. He would watch her face 60
contort with terrible fear as he began slowly pulling the zipper down. Then, still holding her by the throat with one hand, with the other he would slowly, calmly strip off first the sweatshirt, then, his huge fist clenched around the hem of the t-shirt he would pull it up, up, and over her head and it would give her up as he pulled it toward him and down, sliding it easily off her arms…
She could not even imagine fighting him. Every thought of defending herself led, involuntarily, painfully, to thoughts of his brutal retribution. Her pathetic efforts to hit him or push him away met with a rain of terrible, violent blows. If she thought of hiding a knife on her person, which she might use to fend off an attack, the image of him snatching it away from her, then using it on her, slashing her face and body, forced itself into her mind. If she pulled the gun on him, she was sure, he would turn the tables and terrorize her, holding the gun on her as he
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