Jacob was dreaming of his father’s pumpkin patch when the scissors’ snip woke him.
“What’re you doing, Lorraine?” She was obviously feigning slumber.
“Doll,” he said without implication, “I saw you moving. What’you hiding under that pillow?” His wallet, he guessed—for the months they’d been dating he’d refused to let her see his old college I.D., which he carried to sneak discounts at the cineplex. Maybe the padded handcuffs, he considered. Her look was decidedly amorous.
She smiled, reached under the covers, and produced a small velveteen purse which she placed in Jacob’s upturned hands.
“What’s in the case?” he asked, “What’ve you been hiding?” She smiled wide, her crooked incisor catching the morning light.
Jacob unzipped the case and pulled out a needle with a length of thread still attached, dull and dripping blood. “What in the world have you been up to?” he pressed. Again, Lorraine grinned.
She started rocking side to side, squealing with delight, and as she did Jacob felt a thousand tiny ropes tugging at his hip. He pushed off the blanket and looked down at the needlework tying them together. He wondered how he’d slept though it. A rivulet of blood formed in the valley where flesh met flesh. He sighed and said, “nice work with the thread, very evenly spaced,” before giving a nibble to her shoulder.
I wish she were prettier if I have to be in love, he thought to himself, then drifted back to sleep.
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