Midnight Rhythms. Karen Van Der Zee

they’d known each other for a long time and he was so familiar to her. And then they were in bed together and he was holding her, just holding her.

      Heart pounding, David watched her lying on the ground, her clothes muddy, a dry leaf caught in her pale hair. She made no sound, no movement. He could not help her, he could do nothing but watch her, powerless, while birds chirped cheerfully in the trees and a sweet summer breeze whispered through the lush greenery. He stood there, paralyzed, until pure panic hit him and he was awake, drenched in sweat, his heart racing in terror.

      He sat up in bed, turned on the bedside lamp and buried his face in his hands. “Oh, please, not again,” he muttered. “Not again.”

      After some time he got to his feet, pulled on a pair of boxer shorts and went into the kitchen and poured himself a measure of Scotch. He carried it out onto the deck and drank it slowly, standing at the railing. He stared up at the stars, concentrated on his breathing and tried to empty his mind, to think of nothing—a meditation technique someone had taught him when he’d found himself in the derelict little hospital on that godforsaken island in the China Sea. Giggling little nurses, cats in the hallway. And then that funny little Buddhist monk.

      And then, to his own surprise and relief, he found himself smiling.

      The night air was pleasantly cool. Crickets and other insects cheeped and buzzed, vibrating the air. For a long time, he simply stood there.