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Fall of '69 Ch. 04

Around 4 a.m., with my arms around Becky's warmth, my face nestled in her hair, I sank into a deep, Mariana Trench sleep. A sleep so ocean deep, nothing, short of a bomb planted by Jacques Cousteau under the bed, would wake me up.

When I finally cracked opened my eyes, the clock next to the bed said it was 5 a.m.. After blinking out the blurriness, I realized the seconds hand was stuck on 10. Either time had stopped or I'd forgotten to wind it. Also, I noticed someone was missing. Rolling over, I checked the room -- no Becky.

Basking in the memory of her tenderness, I waited for her return, floating in the tropical current of dreams, only to wake up alone. Sunbeams, slanting through the window, hinted the hour was much later than I'd thought.

I put on my robe and walked out into the hall. The bathroom door was open, the light was off, and the house held its breath with a heavy silence.

"Beckster?" I yawned.

No reply. ...

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