Late in the night, it was déjà vu all over again when Cal woke to the strains of music coming, presumably, from the condo building next door. He gently moved Gail’s arm from across his chest and padded into the living room, through the dining area, and to the open sliding-glass doors out onto the beach. The sex had been mostly good for him the second night, but she’d balked this time at the anal. He didn’t like his women to deny him anything he wanted, but he hadn’t demanded it of her. It meant, though, that there would be no third night.

Again, the song was being sung in a low, ethereal voice.

“. . . Those eyes, how familiar they seem . . .” A wave hitting the beach overtook the song, and then, “. . . but she’s only a dream.”

“Laura,” Cal whispered.

This time the shapely, red-haired nude was walking the surf line from the northern, Rehoboth Beach, end of the sand toward the Ocean City, Maryland, beach to the south. Her walk, the shape of her hips, the flare of her buttocks, the flow of the strawberry blonde hair reflecting highlights from the sunrise, the V trim of her curly bush, the tattoo on her breast, the puffiness of her labia. Laura.

“Laura,” he repeated, with vehemence now. He strode to the fireplace in the living area, grabbed up a poker and, naked, slid through the open door and onto the deck.

But, as before, she was gone and the music had stopped. He turned and moved back into the bungalow and over to the fireplace, turning on the track lighting over the fireplace as he did so. He stood there, studying the charcoal drawing of the nude hanging over the fireplace mantel.

At length, a growl rumbled up from his belly, he spat out the name—“Laura”—once more. He had been put on edge, and it made the frustration of Gail denying him what he’d wanted surface. He felt like having anal sex, and, by god, he was going to get anal sex. In anger, gripping the now-forgotten poker hard, he turned and moved back toward the bedroom door.