He’d seen Shenar once since Frank’s death. She’d been at the plant most of the day, in Frank’s old office. She’d appeared normal, busy. When she stood, though, he could see she’d lost weight. Those ridiculous clothes she wore hung like odd sacks with holes for arms, waist and neck.

He was one row back from her during the service. The chairs were set so he had a decent look at her from an angle. Although it had only been a few days since he’d last seen her, she looked worse. When she walked up to the altar to light a candle, he noticed the deep cleft between her buttocks.

He wondered what it would be like to suddenly lose primal contact like that and know you wouldn’t be getting it back soon. He wondered if her body felt shriveled, inside. Somehow, he considered this exciting, not repulsive. He imagined Frank having been there; he imagined the fissure that Shenar had created to keep her ready for contact with Frank. He wondered if she’d ever find herself in the position of doing that, again.

He winced, momentarily, at the thought. He wondered if Frank was around. It doesn’t matter if he is, Bob reminded himself. He’s dead.

Text & Graphics © 1999 by Gail Rae Hudson

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