Mick Warren's imagination frequently ran wild, getting the best of him. His upstairs bed was wedged in a corner between two tall gothic windows. He would lay there looking up at the ceiling high overhead and then at the walls, several coats of mother-of-pearl enamel on ancient tongue-and-groove carpentry.
Below him outside the garden hydrangia moved toward the moon.
He could hear large insects beat against the screens.
Midsummer's Eve.
Her sibilant voice echoed through the halls of his throbbing brain.
Mick Mick Mick!
Tick tick tick. His Rolex watch.
He was afraid to look, afraid of what he might see. There! Writhing in the hydrangia, big as a python, but not a python. The woman---
Mick, invite me upstairs!
He heard the slap of her serpent's tail upon the stairwell wall.
He could still see her rising from the garden soil, breasts and belly moonlit, the black gash of mouth and the molten desire of eye.
Manhood fully aroused, he awaited her coming, and there she was, glistening in a silver mist at the bedroom door. Her bare feet were five-toed porcelain things. Yet she glided, not walked toward him, lithe arms outstretched, lips now ruby wet.
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