"Sometimes."

"s.h.i.thead."

"Sometimes."

"Well, did you know I m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e to Tom Jones alb.u.ms when I'm home alone? I just think about that gyrating hunk of man and blammo, double, triple o.r.g.a.s.ms."

"Sounds nice."

"It is."

"Right there in the living room, huh?"

"Yep, on the couch."

"I see, and I thought that smell was cat p.i.s.s on the cushions."

"You s.h.i.thead."

"Sometimes."

"All the time. Here, put this lotion on me."

"How's that?"

"Ummmm."

"Becky?"

"Yes."

"What did you ever do with that black string bikini?"

"It's at home."

"Can you still fit into it?"

"I ought to slap your face, Montgomery Buford Jones, Jr. You know I can. I've gained a pound or two, but nothing that would spill out. Or haven't you noticed?"

"I notice."

"I bet you don't even look at me anymore."

"I look. Why didn't you wear it today?"

"I haven't worn it in years."

"Why?"

"I'm old-fashioned."

"You weren't old-fashioned when I saw you in it-what there was of it."

"I was shopping then."

"My goodness, that doesn't sound very liberated."

"Truth."

"So why don't you wear it now?"

"Like I said, I was shopping. I've got you nabbed now, for what that's worth.

Besides, doesn't this one look nice enough?"

"There's too much of it."

"I believe that was a male chauvinistic remark, Mr. Montgomery Buford Jones, Jr."

"Definitely."

"What will all your liberal pals say?"

"May I look at your wife's a.s.s, probably."

"Monty."

"I'm not kidding. Have you seen their wives? Yetch, right out of the pound.

Besides, what am I, a eunuch? I like the way you look in that thing."

"Okay, I'll wear it for you next time we come to the beach."

"No way."

"You're impossible."

"You could wear it tonight, at home. That way I'd get to see you in it and Galveston Beach wouldn't have to have its sand dried out."

"What?"

"From all the saliva these male wolves would drip on it when they saw you in that thing."

"Would you like a poke in the nose?"

"How about a kiss?"

"Close enough."

"Lower."

"My G.o.d, Monty."

"Not that low."

"We're saving that for home too?"

"You bet, sweetheart. Now kiss me. On the lips."

"Not bad. Now will you finish with rubbing the suntan oil on already?"

He began rubbing the oil on her back, copping a bit of breast feel around the sides.

"Stop that, Monty."

"Okay."

"Don't you dare . . . Monty?"

"Hummmm?"

"We'll never let anything come between us, will we?"

"What could come between us?"

"We never will, will we?"

"Hey, why so serious?"

"Just answer me."

"Come on, what could come between us?"

"Promise me nothing will. No matter how bad things might get, promise nothing will."

"Things aren't going to get bad. Another couple of years we're going to be chasing little rug rats around until they're grown and we'll probably die in bed at one hundred and six while performing sixty-nine."

"Seriously, promise." She rolled over on her side to look up at him.

"Okay, baby. I promise. Nothing, no matter how crazy, how bad, how terrible, will ever come between us. And you can tuck that in a sock and store it."

Later that day, back at their apartment, Becky wore the bikini for Montgomery.

But only for a little while. They made long, slow, sweet love through the rest of the afternoon and there were no problems. Becky thought it was the best ever.

So by the grace of the sun and the sea and their memories, they had renewed their love and the summer fled on, dragging behind it the good times, running wild, not knowing where the future led.

And the Dark Side Clock ticked on.

(3).

THE CAULDRON BUBBLES.

ONE.

From the May 22 edition of the Galveston News, page 1.

RAPIST RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN.

The fifth in a series of brutal, unsolved attacks on women occurred last night at 304 Strand Street.

The latest victim was 26-year-old Lena Carruthers.

Police say the method of attack, rape and murder by slicing the victim's throat, fits the pattern established by the last four attacks, the first of which occurred late October. New evidence suggests that the Rapist Ripper, as he is now called, may in fact be more than one man. Police . . .

TWO.

From the journal of Brian Blackwood, entry date, May 23.

Last night I awoke and didn 't know where I was. Just woke up and couldn't put it together, and when finally I get it figured that I'm staying over at The House, I roll over and there's Clyde standing by my bed without a st.i.tch on. He's just looking down at me, and I say, "Hey, what's up?" and he doesn't say a G.o.dd.a.m.ned word. Just stands there by the bed in the dark, looking, not doing anything, just looking at me, his eyes all crazy and zombielike, and then I get it figured. Clyde's a sleepwalker.

I didn't know what to do. Heard that you don't wake a sleepwalker on account of he might die. I don't really believe that s.h.i.t, but I didn't want to take any chances, yet didn't know what else to do. Finally I think, get off the superst.i.tious c.r.a.p, so I say his name. He didn't do anything the first time, but when J called it again, a little louder, he says, "It's so lovely, the blood and all. Just d.a.m.n fine."

And then I realize he's talking about what we did last night, and that he's still not awake.

But by then he turns and walks out of there leaving me feeling like we just shot a scene from one of those second-feature, drive-in, Z brand movies.

Gave me the G.o.dd.a.m.ned creeps, I'll tell you, Mr. Journal, but that's between you and me.

I kind of liked it too. I mean, that's the thing with Clyde. He's always doing the unexpected. Nothing normal happens around the guy and the unusual is starting to happen around me too.

Neat.