Cat On A Hyacinth Hunt

Chapter 12

Moral Bankruptcy

Temple woke, aware that she had cold feet.

The graceful Chinese slippers had long since gone the way of her wrinkle -resistant black knitwear. She was tangled with snakes of exotically patterned linens, a naked wrestler of the night.

Above her, the opium bed loomed like a tree turned into a carved cinnabar box.

Stained-glass night-lights glowed just above floor level, like safety beams establishing perimeters, or votives marking the presence of altars.

She had worn no watch, nor wanted one.

Yet now she had a sense of time suspended, and she knew, as she had finally known in New York, that Max was no longer there.

But she was afraid to make sure, like someone awakened from a nightmare with a horrific vision still in fine -focus in her head. Temple suddenly perceived something odd about her night vision: she had not removed her new contact lenses. The optometrist had said that was fine, although not too often. She could see. See the razor- sharp halos of light around the plug-in night lights. See highlights in the mother-of-pearl fretwork, see sheen on the silken pillows.

She couldn't see Max.

Wouldn't see Max?

Dreaming?

Seeing too much? Or too little?

All she had to do was reach out and find something besides twisted bedlinens and scattered pillows and satisfaction.

After New York, she didn't dare.