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  I didn't suggest they come up to visit me. Even meeting

  halfway would've taken her out of her comfort zone. "I'l

  be there tomorrow night, remember? Taking him to the

  movies? Power Heroes? "

  "You could come on Friday, instead. Spend the

  weekend."

  She might be able to know what my face looked like

  without seeing it, but I doubt she knew about the shudder

  crawling over me at the thought.

  "I can't. Busy."

  She didn't push it. "Okay. Fine."

  We were so alike, sometimes it was scary. Which, of

  course, was one reason why I'd moved away. We hung

  up.

  I stripped out of my clothes and headed into the bathroom,

  wishing the conversation could be washed away as easily

  as soapsuds down the drain. Growing up, I'd lived with my

  mom in a series of low-income-housing apartments, rented

  trailers and dilapidated houses owned by men who often

  seemed more interested in the way my mom cooked and

  kept house than anything else about her. There had never

  been enough of anything, but especialy hot water for

  showers.

  In the best of them, I'd been able to sneak a late-night

  shower when nobody else needed to use the bathroom,

  the washing machine wasn't running and nobody was

  cleaning dishes. In the worst of them, I'd sought the

  shower as a refuge from the shouting and the slamming

  doors, shivering under spray that turned frigid long before I

  was ready to get out.

  I worked hard and sacrificed much to afford the smalest

  I worked hard and sacrificed much to afford the smalest

  unit and cheapest maintenance package in one of

  Harrisburg's hottest new apartment buildings. Unlimited

  hot water might be wasteful, and I didn't care. I took

  advantage of it every chance I could.

  By the time I came out dressed in a pair of stretched-out

  fleece pants and a T-shirt that had been threadbare when I

  stole it from Austin's drawer, I felt better. I fixed myself a

  sandwich and a glass of cold milk, and I set it on the table.

  The note was stil there.

  It slid into my hands as though it had been made for my

  fingers. The same black letters stroked this paper with the

  same black ink, and this time, with nobody to see, I

  brought it to my nose and breathed in deep.

  Fresh, good ink smels like nothing else in the world. I

  closed my eyes and breathed again. The paper stil had a

  scent, faintly musky like cologne or perfume I didn't

  recognize. I sat to study it. Bold, heavy strokes of the pen

  carved the number on the front. No envelope, no name, no

  postmark to show where or when it had been mailed. Not

  even a fingerprint smudge to give me an idea of the size of

  the hand that had written it. The elegant handwriting

  showed no gender.

  showed no gender.

  Without an envelope and stamp it couldn't have come

  through the mail, which meant someone had pushed it

  through the slot. The wrong slot, again. They'd taken the

  time to write the number on the front, but hadn't paid

  attention to the number on my mailbox. It wasn't a note for

  me, and I should not have read it. If I hadn't, everything

  would have been different.

  If only I'd done the right thing.

  Chapter 12

  You wil take your finest paper and your best ink.

  You wil write down in explicit detail your most erotic

  experience. It may be real or it may be fantasy, but you

  are to write it without error in your best handwriting,

  without blots or misspelings.

  You wil return this essay to me by Thursday.

  The note listed the same post-office box as before.

  I blinked and read the note again as heat rose in my

  cheeks. I closed it and put it aside. I shouldn't have read it.

  It wasn't for me.

  I opened it again, read over the words in that fluid,

  beautiful hand that gave away nothing of its origin, and

  something twisted inside me. Finest paper and best ink.

  Already I could feel my fingers curving around the pen,

  could imagine the words unscroling under the tip as I put

  my secret thoughts onto paper. I even knew the paper I

  would use. Creamy white, unlined, bordered in gold. It

  was the perfect sheet to use for writing something so

  was the perfect sheet to use for writing something so

  intimate and explicit as had been demanded. I had only

  two sheets.

  I folded the card carefuly and slipped it back into the

  envelope, closing it up as tenderly as I might pul the

  blankets higher on a lover next to me in bed when I woke

  to a chil. I pushed it away from me on the table, and

  folded my hands while I stared at it. The mystery of who

  was sending these notes, these lists, had been

  overshadowed by the more intriguing enigma of why.

  I got up from the table and puled a glass of water from the

  tap, but even though I drank it back in a few quick gulps,

  more the way a practiced drinker wil take whiskey than

  water, it didn't cool the heat rising in my throat to my

  cheeks. I turned, my back to the counter, and leaned. The

  note sat on my table. Not accusing.

  Inviting.

  In a long, long list of sexual experiences, what would I

  consider my most erotic? Not the first time I ever sucked a

  guy off, or the first time I came from someone's else's

  hand. Not the first time I ever fucked, either. Al of those

  had been memorable. I'd had a lot of sex, a lot of it good.

  had been memorable. I'd had a lot of sex, a lot of it good.

  Quite a bit bad. I had a long list of experiences I could

  have written, but what was the one worthy of my finest

  paper? My best ink?

  I busied myself with cleaning my tidy kitchen but was

  unable to put the list from my mind. The first few notes had

  been simple, if enigmatic, instructions. Eat oatmeal. Work

  out. Be beautiful. It had been something of a game, these

  suggestions implanted in my brain and leading me toward

  the choices I'd have probably made anyway even without

  the suggestions. But this…this was different. What had

  seemed harmless before had become slightly more sinister.

  Also, a heluva lot sexier.

  Late night.

  The only light comes, flickering blue, from the TV in the

  corner. The sound's turned down low because it's not so

  important to hear what's being said as it is to see what's

  going on. I've seen this movie before, a few times, in

  pieces, but it's the first time I've ever seen it al at once.

  He lifts his head from kissing me when it comes on, his

  hands stiling on my bely where they'd been wandering

  their way up toward my breasts. "Hot," he murmurs. "This their way up toward my breasts. "Hot," he murmurs. "This movie is hot."

  I push his face back to mine and take his mouth to keep

  his attention on me, not the TV screen. I open my mouth

  and legs to him, puling him down on top of me. Puling him

  close. My heart's open, too, though I haven't yet t