Strangers

landscapes done in his unique style, which successfully married suprarealism with a surreal imagination. While there, he had signed to give one lecture a month at the University of Portland, where Dom held a position in the Department of English.
        Now, while Parker hunched over the table, munching on nachos that were dripping with cheese ared guacamole and sour cream, Dom sipped slowly at a bottle of Negra Modelo and recounted his unconscious nocturnal adventures. He spoke softly, though discretion was probably unnecessary; the other diners on the terrace were noisily involved in their own conversations. He did not touch the nachos. This morning, for the fourth time, he had awakened behind the furnace in the garage, in a state of undiluted terror, and his continued inability to get control of himself had left him dispirited and without an appetite. By the time he finished his tale, he had drunk only half the beer, for even that rich, dark Mexican brew tasted flat and stale today.
        Parker, on the other hand, had poured down three double-shot margaritas and already ordered a fourth. However, the painter's attention was not dulled by the alcohol he consumed. "Jesus, buddy, why didn't you tell me about this sooner, weeks ago?"
        "I felt sort of… foolish.
        "Nonsense. Bullshit," the painter insisted, gesturing expansively with one huge hand, but keeping his voice low.
        The Mexican waiter, a diminutive Wayne Newton lookalike, arrived with Parker's margarita and inquired if they wished to order lunch.
        "No, no. Sunday lunch is an excuse to have too many margaritas, and I'm a long way from having too many. What a sad waste to order lunch after only four margaritas! That'd leave most of the afternoon unfilled, and we'd find ourselves on the street with nothing to occupy us, and then without doubt we'd get into trouble, attract the attention of the police. God knows what might happen. No, no. To avoid jail and protect our reputations, we must not order lunch sooner than three o'clock. In fact, bring me another margarita. And another order of these magnificent nachos, please. More salsa - hotter if you've got it. A dish of chopped onions, too, please. And another beer for my dismayingly restrained friend."
        "No," Dom said. "I'm only half-finished with this one."
        "That's what I meant by 'dismayingly restrained,' you hopeless Puritan. You've sucked at that one so long it must be warm."
        Ordinarily, Dominick would have leaned back and enjoyed Parker Faine's energetic performance. The painter's ebullience, his unfailing enthusiasm for life, was invigorating and amusing. Today, however, Dom was so troubled that he was not amused.
        As the waiter turned away, a small cloud passed over the sun, and Parker leaned in farther under the suddenly deeper shadow beneath the umbrella, returning his attention to Dominick, as if he had read his companion's mind. "All right, let's brainstorm. Let's find some sort of explanation and figure out what to do. You don't think the problem's just related to stress… the upcoming publication of your book?"
        "I did. But not any more. I mean, if the problem was just a mild one, I might be able to accept that career worries lay behind it. But, Jesus, my concerns about Twilight just aren't great enough to generate behavior this unusual, this obsessive… this crazy. I go walking almost every night now, and it's not just the walking that's weird. The depth of my trance is incredible. Few sleepwalkers are as utterly comatose as I am, and few of them engage in such elaborate tasks as I do. I mean, I was attempting to nail the windows shut! And you don't attempt to nail your windows shut just to keep out your worries about your career."
        "You may be more deeply worried about Twilight than you realize."
        "No. It doesn't make sense. In fact, when the new book continued to go well, my anxiety about Twilight started fading. You can't sit there and honestly tell me you think all this middle-of-the-night lunacy springs just from a few career worries."
        "No, I can't," Parker agreed.
        "I crawl into the backs of those closets to hide. And when I wake up behind the furnace, when I'm still half-asleep, I have the feeling that something's stalking me, searching for me, something that'll kill me if it finds my hidey-hole. A couple of mornings I woke up trying to scream but unable to get it out. Yesterday, I