Death Before Facebook

touched her under the chin, a gesture she wasn’t quite sure she liked. She drew back a little.
    He said, “Tell me what’s wrong, little one.”
    “Nothing. I just…”
    “I thought you said you were depressed.”
    He held out an arm and she snuggled into it. “Oh, I am. Mrs. Julian was my music teacher. Did you see her at the funeral? Nothing happening under her hat. I mean nothing—all lights out.” She shrugged, which wasn’t easy with his arm around her. “And then she died.”
    He poured them both some more wine. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”
    “That she died?”
    “She wasn’t really living, anyway.”
    “It’s just so—”
    “Final.”
    “Exactly. How did you know I was going to say that?”
    “Because I know you, my dear. You don’t really know how well, do you?”
    Nervously, she drained off half her wine. “What do you mean by that?”
    “Oh, just that I’ve been watching you. I’ve watched you, and I understand you. I know you.” He pulled her tight against him. His warmth was lovely, and his body too, so much bigger than hers yet still not fat; a good body for a man his age, a very good body. It was nice to be held by a man.
    She simply lay against him, pressing her body to his, not wanting anything except what she already had, enjoying him completely.
    He kissed her cheek and moved near her mouth.
    “No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”
    He moved away.
    “Why not?” He gave her a little more wine, poured the rest of the bottle into his own glass.
    “I don’t know. I guess I just don’t feel sexy tonight.”
    “Uh-huh, that’s what I thought.” How did he keep reading her mind? “Come here.”
    He lay down on the couch and positioned her against him, tight against him, so she could feel every inch of him. She fit neatly into the curve he made for her, found it comforting and cavelike.
    He put an arm around her and stroked her hair.
    They stayed like that for a long time, until her mind started to wander, until she found herself thinking about him fuzzily. Thinking she wanted him.
    But only if they could do it very, very slowly, building up, maybe touching an inch of each other’s bodies at a time, maybe for an hour before going on to the next inch.
    She realized that was what they had been doing.
    She was gently massaging a small patch of his thigh, folded protectively over her.
    She thought he had probably been rubbing her butt a long time.
    She turned toward him, thinking the back of his neck was the next place she wanted to touch.
    She was wearing a short dress, with black tights. It was easy for him to insinuate a hand between her legs. She was surprised that her tights were wet.
    As she felt his hand against her, something exploded inside her, something was set loose that traveled up her body and had to come out her mouth.
    She already controlled the back of his neck. She touched it in such a way that his lips came to her, received her loneliness and the flow of love and lust and deep, despairing longing that she had for him.
    When it was over, they were still wearing their clothes, or most of them. Her tights were on the floor, but her dress felt as if it would cut off her circulation at the neck.
    Pearce’s pants were around his ankles.
    He groped for them. “What did you say to me a minute ago?”
    She was embarrassed. “I said something? ‘Yes, yes’ or ‘Don’t stop?’ Something like that?”
    “It sounded like something else.”
    He was unnerved. So unnerved she had a good idea what it was she’d said. It was something she had thought, but hadn’t meant to say.
    “‘Oh, God, baby, that feels great’?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe.” He was shaking his head as if he’d just been through something awful.
    What she had said was “Thou art god.” It was her religious goal never to make love with anyone she didn’t feel that way about. Witches in books said it, and their mates said, “Thou art goddess,” which was as it should be, Lenore thought. To her, it meant she celebrated his masculinity. But since she didn’t know any male witches she had to figure anyone she said it to would take her for a maniac. Would probably figure she’d stalk him.
    How the hell to get out of this one? She hoped she hadn’t said it more than once.
    She touched his face and gave him a kiss. “How old did you say you were? Twenty-four?”
    He gave her a grin.
    “Want another drink?” That was good for forgetting.
    “Sure.”
    She headed toward the