The dream was different this time.

In this dream, she actually saw them, naked and moaning, on the couch. Caught in the act. Jeanie's fiddle lying carelessly on the floor where either one of them might step on it if they jumped up, realizing they had been discovered. They didn't see her, didn't notice she was there.

She watched the light play on the back of Michael's head as he moved. He had beautiful hair. Wavy, shoulder-length, the color of clover honey. How many times had she looked up through the veil of that lovey hair as he moved over her in the exact same way.

Not nearly so romantic from this angle. Kind of silly-looking, actually.

In the dream, she waited for the rage and the anquish to hit.

In the dream, she was only mildly surprised to realize that what she was feeling was relief.

The dream abruptly shifted, as dreams do.   She was no longer standing in the studio of the house there in Tulsa that she and Michael had shared. She was in a small bedroom on the second floor of an old farmhouse, the moon shining through the open window, and she could hear the faint sounds of flute wafting through the window from somewhere high up on the mountain behind the house. A warm, furry presence curled up next to her, under her outthrown arm. The arm encircled Abiram as she turned on her side and settled back into dreamlessness.