Not a man, he whispered.
Is this my dream or yours? Margrit demanded. Surprise coursed through her, then a wash of laughter rough as sand in water.
Neither, I think, he replied. I hadn't meant to think so strongly of you. Memory rides us. Forgive me, Margrit. Goodbye. A faint hint of wistfulness accompanied his final word: Again.
The dream turned to falling, a short sickening plunge. Margrit jerked awake, covers clenched in her fists, breath cold and harsh. A nearly inaudible click sounded, followed by her radio alarm increasing in volume as she lay on the bed, staring through darkness at the ceiling.
Irrational.
CHAPTER 2
"Margrit?" Her name came through the door, hoarse with sleepiness. "Hey, Grit? You awake?"
Margrit bundled herself in a towel, hair dripping in corkscrew curls down her back, and ran to yank the door open. Cameron, the taller of Margrit's housemates, leaned on the frame with the telephone pressed against her pink-robed shoulder. Her eyes, barely open, closed all the way as a huge yawn squeezed tears from their corners. A second yawn overtook her as she thrust the phone at Margrit. "For you.
"It's six-thirty in the morning." Margrit took the phone in astonishment, putting it against her own shoulder to block their conversation from the person on the other end. "Who'd be calling at this hour? What're you doing home?"
"My six o'clock client cancelled." Cameron yawned again, this time shoving away from the door to stagger back to the bedroom she shared with her fiancé. "I'm supposed to be sleeping in. G'night." She crashed into the doorframe, muttering a complaint as she reoriented herself and made it through the bedroom door on the second try.