Sitting cold-legged in front of the tv, full of stagnant nausea and unbrushed teeth. The old Indian blanket around my legs doesn't take its job seriously, like one of those half-assed factory workers. My knees are somewhat appreciative but the feet scoff and join a union, frozen from lack of sleep. Eyes only halfway open, jaw slack with just too little saliva.

They're out there. Two of them. Outside beyond an unfortunate threesome talkshow and my stiff lower back. The Shotgun Puritans that have no place in my west, lurking looking with non-denominational eyes. I pull myself up out and over, and to the bathroom. I'd noticed a problem earlier involving acid coffee swirling swirling and I finally retch after much gag coercion in a grey bathroom. I was standing panting wishing it was morning when I remembered suddenly. I ran, a pale figure, yellow fever in a bath robe when there's no more chicken soup left; weary and now only almost feverish (I realize I don't have enough heat) up some unfamiliar stairs and burst into a bedroom hidden by its secondary nature. Dominating half this room, from the corner command post, was one of those curtained beds, antique and with a newish aluminum feel. I stood there a moment propped against a wall (thousands of nerve currents still in the stomach region), black curtains contrasting consciously to deep crimson curtains of west-facing windows as the latter prismed the setting sun into a dull, comfortable ray of dust-heat (a deep breath here and onward, godless soldier...); the only penetrating factor here was "stillness," I knew. She stirred, just a hair away from imperceptably, so soft and quiet behind black bed curtains. Still sickly exhausted, I consciously slid into a much darker lair of this "bed," concentrating profusely on resealing a new, druidic dark-pod by tucking back in a swaying "curtain."

Inside was slow, weakened breathing, soft heat-entity and milky breath; the ancient, very human smell of unperfumed skin (a prehistoric pheromonal that sets aside willfull desire in favor of a much more powerful animalism). The very air "within" so thick with her as to produce a certain heady drowsiness of its own, as if an exclusive environment for us alone (O thank nature!). Within seconds I had been brought down by the circle of her thin arms. I could feel a smile from her in the total absence of light, and we played for a time like two Nobokovian baby animals who would mate someday. She, all giggles and squirms, nuzzled teasingly within my arms, I, exhaust steam breath and sweating tension, black beads that evaporate from my forehead . . . then I remembered again, and we stopped simultaneously (of one instance, so it seemed, fateful coincidence).

Just in time, too. Those two defenders of holy dirt, bandoliers of Blessed Shells crisscrossed their chests and Forgiven Blades imbedded in their palms. "The key is to stay guilty," I'd once heard one of them say while eavesdropping in the attic of a friendly heretic. I realized suddenly that it was Fall outside, and there was no shortage of brown burnt umber leaves crunching and scarves pulled across zeal faces against wild Boreas. She and I clutched to each other's bodies cheek to bronze cheek, none of our skin "belonging" to individuals. We turned to each other slowly, unbreathing and such maddening nearness! sinking so rapidly into salty, infantile lust that we were oblivious to the Puritans stopping, snooping, and walking on to inspect the next house.