Day after day she watched him work: the careful way he cupped a seedling, sliding it into a fresh hole; the muscles bunching on his shoulders out as he spaded; his sure stance, legs apart, as he held the hose, covering the opening with a thumb and producing the finest spray on the new flowers.

      One day she heard her back door open: He was in the house, she realized. Clothed only in a light robe, she hurried down the hall to her bedroom, when she saw him coming toward her.

      He asked for water. She pointed him toward the kitchen, then turned to the wall to let him pass. Instead he pressed her against the wall with his body, his groin against her buttocks. Her face was forced sideways, mashing against the plaster. She cried out. His hands grazed her breasts, traveling down to the hem of her robe. They slipped under the fabric, and he stroked her thighs, slowly moving higher and higher. He gazed meditatively at a speck on the wall, taking his time. His fingers found the join of her legs and coaxed them apart; all the while he rocked his groin into her, pressing her mound against the wall, until she grew silent, hypnotized, almost not breathing as she waited for the shock of his hardness inside her--

      At this point the film cut back to the widow's face at the window. It was only a fantasy. Connor could have screamed.

      Months later, making the rounds of New Year's parties, she ran into the film's producer and recalled the scene. "Anyone

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© 2004 Sarah Kernochan