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Subject: {ASSM} Indian Winter (Part 9) By Katzmarek (MF)
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<1st attachment, "Indian Winter9.txt" begin>

INDIAN WINTER (Part 9)

   By KATZMAREK (C)

   ---------------------------------------------------

   Author's note,

   This work is my property and cannot be used for gain without my express
permission in writing.

   -----------------------------------------------

   Jake's mind gradually made the transition from, 'where am I?' to 'oh
shit!' The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a glaring shaft
of sunlight through unfamiliar, orange drapes.  It bore into his brain, he
winced, and closed his eyes again.  The next time he opened them they were
a little clearer and he could make out some detail.

   He was on a sofa and his neck had a crick in it.  On a far wall was a
painting of Shiva and next to it, the Taj Mahal.  A joss stick was burning
in a brass holder on the mantle and the room bore the powerful aroma of
sandalwood.  The white, brushed wool carpet had an expensive look to it
and, on the whole, the room appeared to be part of a reasonably swanky
apartment.

   For instance, the wide screen plasma TV was patched to a 5 channel home
theatre.  The sofa he was on smelled new and the polished, mahogany
veneered table was unstained.  In fact, everything in the room looked liked
they'd barely been unpacked from their boxes.  Someone had been spending a
great deal of money, or flogging their Mastercard to death.

   On the table, however, was something he never expected to see.  Casually
placed, as though someone had taken it out of their pocket, was a 9mm Steyr
Automatic pistol.  By the look of it, Jake was fairly sure it was a cheap
Chinese clone.  A box of ammo lay beside it.

   There was a menace about it, which transcended its deadly purpose.  Jake
had guns himself, but always locked away in accordance with his arms
licence.  Why any responsible gun owner would leave a thing like that lying
around, he'd no idea.

   It's also illegal to possess one, except under specified, and rare,
circumstances, unless professionally disabled.  Jake felt a knot of fear
begin to develop in his stomach.  What had he gotten himself into?

   He began to piece together events of the previous evening.  He and Mary
had a fight, although he thought it was over nothing.  He remembered the
bar, the late night crowd, and drinking far more than he was used to.  He
thought of the cigarettes he'd smoked, proffered by some instant friend
he'd found.  He recalled standing in the smoking area outside as people
milled around and laughed at corny jokes.

   Then he was sitting in the driver's seat of his car.  He was staring at
the clocks, knowing full well he was unable to drive.  He wondered where he
was going to spend the night and thought he might stay there, in his car.
His keys had not made it to the ignition and lay at his feet.  That was
probably what saved him from a night in the cells.

   There was a loud rapping on his window and he saw the Nightview,
flourescent white letters 'POLICE' spread across the man's chest.  The man
stood back as Jake opened the door.

   "Are you intending to drive, sir?" The cop said, kneeling, in a faux
assertive voice.

   "No!" Jake said.

   "What are you doing?" the cop continued.  Jake shrugged his shoulders
and he heard squawking voices as the guy listened to his radio.  "May I see
your license?" Jake fished out his wallet, spewing his cards all over the
passenger seat.  He handed the cop his license and he walked back to his
car to verify the details.  "You can't stay here," the cop said when he
came back.  "Have you anyone you can call to pick you up?"

   "Sure, sure," Jake was desperate to sound cooperative.  First he'd
called Mary's number but she'd turned off her phone.  The only other number
he could think of was Sharmila's.  He'd copied her number into his
phonebook earlier in the day.

   Her voice had sounded sleepy.  He'd explained his predicament and she
asked to speak to the officer.  He'd seemed satisfied, then, and, after
stressing it was illegal for him to drive, seemed content at the outcome
and went away.  Jake waited another half hour before Sharmila turned up in
a taxi.  She was happy to drive him home, she'd said, and took him to her
place.

   He was not too plastered to remember that nothing happened.  He'd sat on
her sofa and he must have drifted off.  Waking later that night, he'd found
Sharmila had thrown a rug over him.  He was far too gone to have initiated,
and too bombed to respond.

   But he knew he shouldn't be here.  He thought Mary would be willing to
take him back after cooling off, but this situation wasn't going to improve
his chances.

   The door to the bedroom opened and Jake was confronted by a vision
straight out of a soft focus softcore video.  Sharmila didn't so much as
walk but glided into the room.  She was dressed in a pale blue satin
nightdress that clung to her body like a second skin.  Her full breasts
were barely restrained below an acre of sexy, brown cleavage.  She'd been
brushing her hair and it was long, loose and shone with copper highlights.
Sharmila looked at him and smiled so that the room seemed to increase in
temperature a few degrees.

   "You're awake?" she asked in her lilting, exotic, New Delhi accent. 
"You look terrible."

   "I feel it," Jake told her, his voice rasping through a cracked throat
and a mouth like sandpaper.  He felt truly ill from a hangover and his
voice sent stabs of pain through his temples.  "Ah...  ya shouldn't leave
that lying around," he croaked, nodding towards the gun.  "You get caught
with that, the police will throw the book at you."

   "I'm sorry," she replied, "it was my husband's.  I was just seeing if it
was still in working order."

   "Why?  Expecting trouble?" he grinned.  He couldn't imagine any trouble
Sharmila could get herself in requiring artillery of that magnitude.

   "No," she smiled, "but it's wise to have protection even in this
country."

   "What the Hell for, Sharmila?  It's crazy to have a gun like that.  It's
the prerequisite for a tragedy."

   "How so?"

   "Because it's too convenient to grab when you're scared by some noises
in the night.  You could end up blowing some poor bastard away just for
asking directions to the nearest gas station.  Even worse, if you were
confronted by some villain, without training you could wind up being killed
by your own weapon.  This is not America, Sharmila, no-one needs a thing
like that." The speech exhausted him and he was wracked by a fit of
coughing.  He really shouldn't have accepted those cigarettes last night!
"A kick in the bollocks is all you need!"

   "I'm a single woman, Jake," she explained.  The words were loaded with
emphasis.  "I don't have a man to look after me.  I must accept
responsibility for my own safety."

   "Sharmila, I..."

   "I will put it away," she told him, "now, do you want some breakfast?"

   ------------------------------------------

   Mary gradually became aware of the body lying in bed beside her.  She
thought it was Jake and rolled over for her good morning kiss.  She
realised her mistake, then, when she saw the dyed blonde curly locks of her
friend, Catherine Sullivan.  Cath stirred, rolled over and looked at her.

   "Hi, how you feeling, hon?" she asked.

   "Like shit!" Mary groaned, "did we drink last night?"

   "Just a bottle of wine.  I pushed OJs at you for the rest of the
evening."

   "Why?"

   "Because I'm an alcohol and drug counsellor and it's not in your
interest to get plastered."

   "Fuck you!"

   "Fuck you, too.  Jake called you?"

   "Dunno...  turned the phone off."

   "Check your messages.  The poor guy's probably been going frantic."

   "I know...  serves him right."

   "Well, call him and patch up.  Y'know where he would've gone?"

   "A motel, I suppose."

   "You told him to go and fuck Sharmila?"

   "I know!" Mary groaned, "I was mad at him."

   "Serves you right if he took you up on it.  Shit, Mary, a night on the
sofa would've sufficed.  Why'd you go and throw him out for?"

   "I don't know...  I lost my temper."

   "The Hell you did!  Check your messages?  Anything there?"

   "Yeah, Jake.  Three...  no four times.  Last one 2 in the morning.  Poor
honey must've been going nuts.  Fuck, I'm a silly bitch!" Mary checked her
messages from Jake on her cellphone.  As she listened, she groaned some
more and bit her lips.  As she got to the last one, however, she sat up. 
"Oh, no, Cat!  Listen to this last one?"

   Cath pressed the phone to her ear.  She had trouble making out the
slurred speech but it was obvious Jake was calling for help, that he'd been
picked up by the police and needed rescuing.  "Shit, shit, shit.  You'd
better call him and see if he's all right."

   "Yeah!" Mary speed dialled his number.

   ------------------------------------------

   Sharmila waited patiently for Jake to finish talking on the phone.  She
sat at her table, where they'd been having breakfast, and Jake had fled to
the other side of the room when his phone peeped.  She asked him if
everything was all right and he came back, grinning.

   "It was all a mistake," he explained, "she got mad.  She wants me to
come home."

   "There, see?" Sharmila said, "I knew it would work out.  It was your
first fight?" He nodded.  "Then you must go home as soon as you can.  Bring
her flowers?"

   "I will."

   "And give her a big hug?  Kiss her sweetly and take her to bed?"

   "Not sure I'm up to it," he replied, abashed.

   "You will find the energy," Sharmila laughed, "when you see her,
everything will fall into place."

   As Jake left, Sharmila stood by the window for a while.  When she saw
his car take off down the street she went back into the kitchen.  Picking
up the pad by the phone, she opened the first page and stared at the
address hastily written down there.  She then got out her road map of the
city and ran her finger along the 57 bus route.

   -------------------------------------------------

   Mary rang her service administrator and rearranged her appointments for
the week.  She decided to have the day off to make things up with Jake. 
The woman told her she had a message from the refuge for her.  Sharmila
Devi had checked out early that morning leaving a message that she was
going home.

   Mary marked the information for future reference.  No-one could stop her
leaving at any time, it was not a prison.  At the end of the day, women
were responsible for their own safety.  The refuge could only offer
support.

   Jake had told her he'd stayed at a friend's place.  He'd been a little
evasive and Mary had guessed it was someone he'd just met at the pub.  Some
sympathetic mug had given him a roof for the night.  He'd also explained
he'd talked himself out of trouble when confronted by the police.  He'd got
someone to drive who was sober.  Mary put her suspicians behind her, even
though she could feel them gnawing away.  She'd hadn't been in the mood for
another scene, or a lengthy interrogation.  As Cath explained, there had to
be a time for trust, and, she'd figured, she'd better start now or the
relationship was doomed.

   She'd jumped when she'd heard his car crunch up her driveway.  She'd
opened the front door and watched him saunter towards her carrying a huge
bunch of flowers and a grin.  He knew he'd done good, she'd thought, and he
was rightfully smug about it.

   Mary had taken the flowers inside and had fussed about for a vase.  The
bouquet languished for the time being on the table, however, when he'd put
his arms around her and hugged for a full ten minutes.

   She'd quelled his attempt at apology and sniffed, moist eyed, into his
neck.  She'd mumbled she was sorry and asked him if he was hungry.  She
hadn't made a move to the kitchen, however, preferring to stay where she
was.

   Jake reeked of stale booze and cigarettes.  Mary'd ordered him to the
bath immediately and he'd asked her to scrub his back.  She'd waited
impatiently while the bath filled and heard him splashing.  Quickly, she'd
stripped and went in to join him.

   Mary'd lathered up his hair, kissing his shoulders, and revelling in the
contact, skin to soapy skin.  She'd maneuvred around so she was facing him,
legs twined around his.  She'd kissed and stroked and kissed again, played
with his equipment while he'd fumbled around between her legs.  She'd
thought about fucking right there in the bath, but it was too awkward and
she'd worried about vaginal infections with the dirty water.

   She'd stood, took his hand, and guided him out of the bath to the
towels. They'd dried each other, before strolling hand in hand to the
bedroom.

   ---------------------------------------------

   And now, here they were, sitting naked in their bed poring over the
atlas spread on the sheets.

   "Here," he said, "Severodinsk!"

   "Why?"

   "It's a cool name."

   "Twit!  So you think the Trans Siberian?  Then we could catch a flight
from Vladivostok to Vancouver?"

   "And down here through Seattle...  the West Coast Highway, maybe by
motorbike?  Y'fancy being a biker chick?" He knew she hated the word
'chick.' Rather than a telling off, however, she playfully batted at him
with the back of her hand.

   "Honey?  Where'd we stay?  Y'thought about that?"

   "Wherever you like.  Motels, Hotels, Camping grounds, in a tent..."

   "Not in a tent, baby.  I've lost the urge to rough it."

   "Then maybe one of those Winnebago thingies, with all the modcons?"

   "That sounds more like it," Mary chirped, "more my style.  Hot and cold,
indoor plumbing..."

   "You don't piss in the woods, then?"

   "All right for you guys," she laughed, "all you have to do is flop it
out."

   "So!" he summed up, "we do Europe, across Russia, then down the West
Coast of the States.  What'd we do after that?"

   "Isn't that enough?" she said, "I've got a job, remember?"

   "Yeah, and you've got twenty years' leave built up.  I reckon that must
be over a year."

   "Not quite.  I haven't always worked for the service.  I've done other
stuff, y'know?  I haven't got that much leave owing."

   "How much, then?"

   "Um, about 30 weeks, I think."

   "Well, that's seven months."

   "It is?  No kidding?  Shit, I suppose it is.  I've never really worked
it out before."

   "Why the Hell have you never taken a holiday in 20 years?" he asked.

   "I suppose...  well, it kind of crept up on me.  My life is, was, work.
It defined what I am, I allowed it to define me.  I had no other life
outside of work.  I even socialised with the people I work with.  What
would I do with a holiday?  I'd have probably moped around home, bored as
Hell, or gone out drinking with Cath or something.  Not very healthy, huh?"

   "Maybe.  But I can understand that," he replied, "I lived above my work.
I never left it except to go shopping.  Didn't much like pubs..."

   "That changed!" she interrupted and he grimaced at the memory.

   "Yeah, well, I still don't like them all that much.  Last night...  I
kind of realised I had nowhere to go.  I mean, really, nowhere to go and
I've lived in this town all my life.  I was a stranger in my home town!"

   "So how did you spend your time?"

   "Mucked about in the shop, read, watched TV.  Maybe a movie, but they're
no fun on your own."

   "But girlfriends, Jake?  You're a good looking guy, well spoken and
smart.  How come you haven't really had a girlfriend before?"

   "I dunno," he shrugged, "it just seemed like too much trouble and
stress. I wish we'd just cut to the chase, but you have to go through all
that courtship stuff.  It seems to me it's all about making out to be
something you're not until you can trust the other person enough to reveal
something of your true self.  What's wrong with honesty?  'I think you've
got a sexy body and I want to sleep with you?' Something like that,
perhaps? Except I think I'd get a slap around the face."

   "You'd be surprised!" she laughed, "I'd respond to a line like that. 
Why waste time on preliminaries?  If I liked you, why not get down to
business and stop mucking around?"

   "But you're different," he laughed, "you're a horny bitch!"

   "Haha.  Maybe I've got less time left to fool around?  Grab what's on
offer, that's my motto."

   "Except you didn't grab much in the last 20 years, did you?"

   "About as much as you, apparently!"

   "Face it, we've both avoided romance."

   "Love, honey.  We've dodged love, that's what we've done.  But we can
change, can't we?  We can let down our guards a little and let the other
in. We can accept each other and value what we bring into the relationship?
I need to learn to care for you in the way you care for me.  I pushed you
out into the night with nowhere to go.  There was no excuse for that.  Even
if you were the biggest arsehole in the world, I should never have done
that to you."

   "Yeah, well..."

   "Exactly where did you spend the night, honey?" she asked, "just
curious, you never said."

   "You won't be mad?"

   "Sharmila," she closed her eyes, "you spent the night with her?  I
should've guessed.  In fact, I think I knew."

   "We never did anything!" he told her, "I slept on her sofa...  she was
in her room...  I had nowhere else."

   "Yes," she sighed, "I deserved that.  Thank you for being straight,
Jake, I mean it.  I know you didn't do anything, you'd been far too guilty
looking."

   "You know she's got a gun?" he told her.

   "What?"

   "Yeah.  I thought it was a Chinese copy, but it was a real Steyr pistol.
It's as illegal as Hell, Mary, why'd ya think she'd want a thing like
that?"

   "I...  I don't know, Jake.  I'm speechless, I..."

   "Mary?  I know she's been cool and friendly and everything.  But
frankly, babe, there's something about her that freaks the shit out of me."

   "I know what you mean.  Why'd you agree to invest in her company?"

   "Well, she's very persuasive...  and, I kinda felt I was obligated
and..."

   "Honey, you're too soft."

   "I know.  She's the kind of woman that gets her own way."

   "And she's got a great pair of tits?"

   "Never noticed!" he grinned.

   "Oh, right!  Liar!"

   Mary batted him playfully then began to wrestle.  Soon the wrestling
took on a more amorous aspect.

   -----------------------------------------

   Fairview Lane wound off the main road to the pompously named new suburb
of Chrichton Heights.  Few of the residents knew who Chrichton was.  In
fact, it was the name of the farmer who originally owned the land.  Back in
the seventies, it had been a dairy farm before old Chrichton saw bigger
opportunities in sub dividing for housing.  The city had been expanding
rapidly and old Chrichton himself had disappeared to the South of France
afterwards.

   Fairview Lane had been renamed from 'line,' a farm boundary marker.  The
original 'line' was a rough gravel road and the only house on it was a
former sharemilker's cottage.  The 'lane' had been extended, as nearby
fields were developed into 40 acre blocks for the rich town folk.  The
influx of serious money had resulted in the lane being sealed, but the
surface by Mary's cottage was still rough.  Builders' trucks also had their
effects on the lane.

   A little way up the lane from Mary's cottage was the remnant of a bay
where the milk trucks used to turn.  The roadworks company had left a pile
of spare aggregate there and sometimes lovers found it a discrete place to
park.  In any case, a parked vehicle couldn't be seen by passing traffic
behind the heap of road metal.

   The cottage wasn't that easy to find.  Sharmila's map was old and the
cottage only had a Rural Fire Service Emergency Number to mark its
location. She'd been confused by the difference between 'line' and 'lane.'
Eventually, she asked directions at the local shopping centre and they were
happy to help out.

   She came upon the cottage all of a sudden.  She saw Jake's grey Camino
up the driveway and knew it must be the place.  She also spied the layby
back up the road.  Sharmila went on past and had a good look around before
turning around.  She then sped her brand new Audi A4 back the way she'd
come.

   ----------------------------------------------

   It was such a nice day, Mary and Jake decided to have lunch outside on a
rug on the lawn.  They talked about building an extension on the house for
Jake to store his antiques.  They paid no attention to the car speeding
past.  Mary often thought there'd be a bad accident in the lane soon, with
all the idiots and their fast cars.

   She made some sniggering joke about garden walls and geraniums.  Jake
told her he didn't feel like a repeat performance as he was quite happy
just hanging out there, with her.  She kissed him and told him he couldn't
stand the pace.

   "Jake?" Mary said, "it kind of concerns me that Sharmila owns a pistol.
When you were at her place, did you see anything else, anything unusual?"

   "Not really," he shrugged, "although she's sure been spending some money
lately.  Everything in that place was brand new, and good quality at that."

   "Hmm, 80 grand's worth?"

   "Maybe?" he shrugged, "but she doesn't seem the type to burn off her
whole bank balance.  Nor use credit, for that matter.  She's way too smart
with money."

   "You mean tight?"

   "As a drum!  I'd say she's gotten herself a fair bit of cash, lately."

   "I wonder who's she shaken down?  I wonder if she's blackmailing..."

   "What?"

   "This guy, Lionel Sampson..." Mary explained what she heard from Murray
Sykes about Sharmila's 'incident' with the 'sleazebag businessman.' "Now,
don't repeat that, will you?" she added, "its confidential information from
the police computer."

   "Sharmila would be playing a dangerous game mixing with the likes of
him," Jake told her, "maybe that's why she's got herself a gun?"

   "I hope not," Mary replied, "does she know how to use it?"

   "Not sure.  Someone trained in firearms wouldn't leave it lying around
like that, though.  And she didn't seem to know it was illegal to own one.
She said it was her husband's.  I got the feeling she really didn't know
too much about them, but, who knows?"

   "That's not good," Mary said.

   "No, babe, it's not!

   ----------------------------------------------------

   Sharmila, herself, spent the rest of the day working.  Her bedroom
became her office, for the time being, until she could lease proper
premises.  Her filing cabinet was her bed, and she had it laid out with her
paperwork.  The dresser became a desk and her Toshiba laptop was set up
there.

   Sharmila's dabbling in the local property market had revealed a great
deal of untapped potential.  There was a shortage of inner city property
for commercial space and she felt the fringe residential area was bound to
shoot up in value.  Most of those houses were old and she discovered the
City planned to re-zone the area.  If they moved fast, they could swoop on
these properties and make a killing.

   She needed venture capital and she already had a couple of investors
signed up.  Jake promised her a million, which would give her a tidy level
of equity.  She moved fast and already she had the lawyers drawing up the
documents.

   She buzzed with energy and enthusiasm.  There was risk, sure, but that
just made it that little more exciting.  Her strengths were the ability to
get people on board, to persuade them she knew what she was doing.

   Jake had been the easiest to persuade, she mused.  But then, she knew
what made him tick and what tools to use.  It had taken little levering for
him to agree.

   She was gaining a reputation in this town as a dynamic and able
businesswoman.  It was important to look the part and she'd spent a fortune
on snappy business clothes.  Outward appearances was part of the package
she was selling.  She wasn't afraid to use her sexuality, either.  Men
liked her and found her sexy.

   She was working herself to exhaustion, this day, and she'd skipped
meals. She recognised the danger signs and thought she ought to put herself
to bed.  Reluctantly, she turned off the computer and gathered up her
papers.  After grabbing something from the fridge, she lay on her bed
thinking, her mind still in gear.

   Sharmila tried to think of pleasant, erotic, thoughts to help her relax.
She thought of that lovely Polynesian girl and of Jake.  Some dark memories
intruded and became persistant enough she thought she'd better let them run
their course.

   In the weeks following her introducing the Polynesian to her husband, he
became sullen and disrespectful.  They had fights, argued most days, and he
called her 'sick' and a 'freak.' She responded that he was a liar and
didn't really love her, that their marriage was a farce and he was
responsible.

   He took her to counselling but that didn't seemed to help.  Their
communication would improve for a day or so, then the fights would start
again.

   Mary had suggested she had 'intimacy issues' that needed work.  She told
her she needed to deal with her fears around intercourse and stop trying to
seek 'alternatives.' Sharmila had told her she was willing to work things
out but her husband had to be more understanding and show his love for her.

   In itself, their wasn't anything wrong with 'alternative marriage
arrangements,' Mary had told her.  But they had to be by mutual agreement
and were a problem if they came between the 'bonding process.' Marriage was
all about negotiation, but both parties had to be part of the agreement.

   "Your husband seeks other outcomes than you do," she said.  Mary made it
sound like a trade deal, not a loving marriage.

   Her husband had brought others home, but they weren't the type of girl
Sharmila would've chose.  He seemed to be trying to punish her.  The women
he picked up from clubs and bars and, for the most part, were drunk and had
little idea what they were doing.

   One, a solid white girl with big hips and a bust to match, he took right
in front of her on the sofa in the lounge.  Her eyes were unfocussed and
she couldn't stop giggling.  Her husband merely took down her panties and
hammered her, legs up and on his shoulders, while she sprawled across the
couch.  Sharmila remembered how he jabbed her as he came, growling and
ugly. Sharmila herself, then had to pull up the girl's pants and escort her
to the door, dodging her rum and coke breath.  Her husband had slammed the
bedroom door and wouldn't let her in.  She had to sleep on the sofa and it
stank of piss, cum, sweat, cheap scent and stale booze.

   Their life became sordid, 'dysfunctional' and they developed a hatred
for each other.  Financial stress, too, intruded, and exacerbated the
situation.  Her husband wasn't doing well at his job and was hampered with
his English.  He never could speak as well as her, but, equally, there was
a fair bit of prejudice towards those who couldn't speak English like a
native.

   The tension reached its climax with the assault, which Sharmila found
impossible to withdraw the veil from.  There were hazy images of him
looming over her, of the pain, the outrage, his screaming, and her's. 
There was blood on the bedcover and on his thighs.  He wiped some from
himself and smeared it over her stomach.  She was a mess, stank of his
essence, his sweat, her blood and she'd wanted to die.  She remembered
ringing 111 and screaming down the phone.  She had no idea what she said,
but police, ambulance and firemen had crashed through the door barely
minutes later.

   Her husband was picked up and spent the night in the cells.  An Indian
lawyer came and bailed him out the next day and that evening, he was on a
plane to India.  Not one of the authorities had thought to take his
passport.  Mary had come to the hospital and sat with her throughout the
day.  Cops and forensics came and went to collect evidence and ask her,
again, to talk through the events.  All that time Mary had held her hand,
wiped her tears, and even put make up on her face so she could regain a
little bit of self respect.

   Sharmila was released the next day and Mary picked her up and took her
to the Women's Refuge.  She found other women there with similar tales of
assault and rape but she didn't want to hear any of it.  She just wanted to
shut it all out, to pretend it never happened, and to be normal again.

   All that time Mary and she had grown as close as sisters.  She went in
to bat for her when the cops, or lawyers or immigration officials came and
pestered her.  Mary had told one to 'Fuck off, don't you think she'd been
through enough?' The guy had scuttled with his tail between his legs, she
remembered, and she'd no doubt Mary would've flattened him if he'd
persisted.  Mary knew all the cops personally and chose one, a woman, who
was nice, spoke softly, and respected her.  Sharmila had recounted as much
of the story that she could remember and she stroked her face and mothered
her.

   Sharmila felt strange about Jake and Mary together.  She dreamed of them
locked together naked and wished she could be there with them, to share
their special time.  She dreamed about having both their arms draped over
her.  She'd be in the middle and their heads would be pillowed on each of
her breasts.  Jake would be spreading oil on her bloated tummy and Mary,
stroking and kissing her face.  The three of them could be so happy
together.

   --------------------------------------------
   KATZMAREK (C)

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