A COLD DAY IN HELL 
                  


     An unseasonable late summer fog outside the window 
softened the outlines of the buildings across the street 
and imparted a sense of the insubstantial to all that was 
normally solid and set.  Miller liked the fog.  It brought 
everything in close, everything that was within sight, that 
is.  All else it banished.  Too bad life wasn't like that - 
out of sight, out of mind.  
     Miller turned off the volt-meter and sighed.  Why
couldn't they check the fuses before they brought equipment
in for repair?  He hated charging his minimum rate for a
simple change of a fuse, yet even changing a fuse took time,
and time was, as they said, money.  
     Miller glanced at his watch.  Its hands pointed to
six-thirty.  Funny, that, he thought.  Here he was, an 
electronics tech and he still preferred an old analogue 
watch.  There was something to the simplicity of the two
hands, dark against a white face, that appealed to him.
Simple was good.  
     He yawned, then spun around in the chair.  The fuse
drawers looked him in the face.  Selecting a fuse he turned
once more to the receiver, inserted it and, voila, the
receiver sprang to life.  The customer would get his
money's worth, though, and Miller  began a careful
check to try and find what might have caused the fuse
to blow.  It didn't take long.  Stickiness on the receiver
suggested a spilled drink of some kind.  Miller cleaned it
up as best he could, then put the receiver back together.
He plugged it in again and again it came to life - no
problem.
     "Enough."  The word sounded through the empty shop.
His assistant had gone home over two hours ago, leaving him
to close by himself - as usual.  Miller chuckled.  His 
assistant wasn't fool enough to put in the kind of hours
that he did.  Ben had a life outside the shop.
     Outside the shop the fog was thicker than ever.  The
forecast had called for it to dissipate by now.  The
forecast was wrong - what else was new?  Miller shrugged
his way into his coat, put on his hat, set the alarm and 
left the shop.  The damp chill outside caused him to 
shiver as he turned the key in the lock and he turned
his collar up against the fog.
     A lone car rolled past, tail lights growing fuzzy
before disappearing.  Traffic was always light in the
area after six and the dense fog made it lighter still.
Miller checked his watch once more.  It was seven 
twenty-five.  He turned the corner and headed for the 
Driftwood.  There would be music there, and food.

     "Hi, Miller."  The man behind the bar greeted him,
with a smile.  "Good weather, eh?"  A downturn in the
weather usually meant an upturn in business.
     Miller smiled back, turning down his collar, welcoming
the warmth of the pub.  "The best.  What's good in the
kitchen tonight, Dan?"
     Dan made a face and complained, "Come now, Miller, you
know that everything that comes out of my kitchen is good."
He paused as a waitress walked out with a steaming bowl of
chili and watched her for a moment before dragging his
attention back to Miller.  "Especially that,"  he concluded,
"and I do not mean the chili."
     "You're a married man, Dan," Miller laughed at him,
then accepted the glass of wine which Dan had poured.
     "Yes, but that does not mean I cannot look."  
     They laughed together.  It was almost ritual.  They
both knew that Dan would never do anything to hurt his
wife.  They had been together for almost thirty years now
and were still deeply in love - as far as Miller could 
tell.  What was coming was almost ritual too, though
Miller could do without it.
     "You, on the other hand, my friend, should be doing
more than just looking."  He lowered his voice to a stage
whisper, "Her name is Cheryl and she does not have a 
partner.  She is a good girl, Miller, trust me."
     Out of politeness Miller turned to look again, his 
eyes following the trim brunette around the room.  She 
*was* lovely, he had to admit.
     "Too young, Dan.  Can't you find anyone closer to my
age?"
     "Bah!  Always ready with the excuse.  Can't be more
than seven, maybe eight years difference.  If it is not too
young, it is too old.  Fridays you do not like blondes,
Wednesdays you do not like redheads.  Too slim, too fat,
eyes set too narrow, eyes set too wide.  What is it with
you?  Mondays you will not go out with married women, then 
on Thursdays single girls do not appeal to you."
     At that last Miller looked up with blank astonishment.
"Surely I'm not that bad?"
     "Worse," Dan confirmed.  "Now, what is it you wish to 
eat."
     "Fish and Chips, Dan.  No tartar sauce, lots of lemon."
     "Not the chili?" asked Dan, laughter dancing in his
eyes.
     Miller looked at him in mock horror.  He tried it
occasionally and it was always, in his own words, 'hotter 
than Hell'.  The first time Dan had laughed at his comments, 
replying that it still had a ways to go to get that hot, now 
he only laughed.  Yet even though he always complained 
vociferously, he kept on coming back to it.  However, 
Miller had to be in a certain mood to attempt the chili. 
     "I think not.  Fish and chips will do me fine, Dan," he
pointed to an empty table next to the wall, "and I'll sit at 
that table.  If I stay here at the bar and I'll never hear 
the end of this."  This last was said as Dan's eyes went
again from the waitress to him, then back again.
      "Good idea, Miller," Dan agreed and winked.  "That 
way Cheryl can serve you.  I will send her over with your
food."  Miller shook his head, resigned to the fact that 
Dan never let up.  "Smile at her, Miller," he enjoined, 
"she is a good one."
     Miller sat down at the table and let the music and the
conversations wash over him.  The noise and the mirth about
him made him feel a part of life, somehow.  The silence
which awaited him in his apartment simply made him feel
apart.  That was why he spent as little time there as 
possible.  It was a place to sleep, to wash and, of course, 
to do his laundry.
     He sat back and closed his eyes, listening, focusing 
on nothing, focusing on everything.
     "Mr. Miller?"
     His eyes snapped open.  The young woman was standing
next to the table, wanting to put down the plate.  His 
wine glass was blocking her.  He moved it and she set down
his meal with a smile.
     "Thank-you."  She had very nice eyes, he thought, then
his attention was attracted by Dan, in the background, 
mouthing the word 'smile'.  He didn't.
     "Will there be anything else, sir?"  
     "No, nothing."  She had a sweet voice too.  Clear.
He looked down at his plate and his eyebrows rose.  "Excuse
me, miss?"
     "Yes?"  Cheryl turned back.
     "Tell the cook that I have a complaint."  He had to 
struggle to keep from laughing out loud.
     "Is there something I can do?"  She looked confused.
The meal looked very nice - especially nice - and he hadn't 
even touched it yet.
     "No.  I don't think so.  Don't worry, she's expecting
it.  She loves getting complaints from me."
     Clearly confused, Cheryl turned and headed for the
kitchen.  Moments later the cook walked out, still wearing 
her apron.  She walked over, looking very concerned.
     "What is the problem, sir?" she asked, the concern
evident in her tone of voice.
     "What do you call this?" Miller asked plaintively,
indicating the plate.
     The cook chose to misunderstand.  She smiled sweetly.
"Broccoli.  And that is Cauliflower.  Carrots, corn and,
yes, a sprig of parsley."  Her smile turned to a grin,
"But surely you have seen them before, Miller?"
     "But I ordered Fish and Chips, Sandra," he protested.
     Sandra pointed.  "Fish."  And again.  "Chips.  Miller,
you have to take better care of yourself.  Be sure and eat
all the veggies."  She patted him on the shoulder.  "Now,
is there anything else?"
     "Yes, as a matter of fact there is."
     "Yes?"
     "Dan has a case of the roving eye again, Sandra."
     She laughed jovially.  "But Miller," she explained,
"he has always had the roving eye.  The man has an eye for
beauty."  She posed for him.  "That is why he married me."
     "And a lucky man he is, too."  Miller said seriously.
"But Sandra," he lowered his voice and she bent over to 
listen closely, "if you ever get tired of him, you can 
always have me."  He reached up and gave her a quick kiss 
on the cheek.
     Sandra shook her finger at him trying, but unable, to
keep a straight face.  "Eat your veggies, Miller."
     Miller's "Yes, mom," earned him an explosion of 
laughter as she headed back to the kitchen.
     The waitress had been watching and appeared relieved
that there was no real problem at the table.  Miller noted
that then ignored her and concentrated on his meal.  He
was careful to eat all the veggies - except one small piece
of each type.  That would earn him a laugh, he had no 
doubt, for he knew that Sandra would check.
     The fog had not yet dissipated when he walked out of
the Driftwood an hour later.  It was cool and dark compared
to the warmth and brightness of the Driftwood and that 
suited Miller.  It was more in line with what he was 
feeling - with what he usually felt after an hour in the
Driftwood.
     At first it was nice and friendly, the noise and the
laughter around him, accepting him, then as time passed 
he would become aware that the noise and the laughter were 
not actually for him, that he was alone and not really 
enjoying it.  At that point being there would become 
oppressive, not welcoming, and at that point he would leave.
     Yes, the fog was welcome.  In it one couldn't see
very far in any direction, definitely not far enough back
to see his life before Nadine had left.  In the warmth
of the Driftwood he could see that far, did see that far,
once the oppression began.  That was why he had to leave
immediately.  Thinking of Nadine could not be condoned.
It hurt too much.  She was also the reason Miller would
always have an excuse ready for Dan.  After Nadine left
he had sworn that it would be a cold day in Hell before
he let anyone close enough to hurt him like that again.
     The mournful sound of a ships horn in the fog sent
him in the direction of the Harbourfront Park.  That, too,
was ritual.  It was a nice place to visit, especially in
these late summer days - when it wasn't foggy like this - 
when joyful people were everywhere.  The only drawback 
would be the sight of all the couples, walking hand in 
hand, living proof that the impossible was possible.
     Today, in the fog, there would be no such problem.
He would go, as he always did, to his special spot and
sit a while, listening to the waves and watching the
ships in the harbour, longing to be on one going anywhere.
Of course today he wouldn't be able to see them, but he
could listen.  He lengthened his stride.
     About forty metres short of his goal he stopped 
suddenly.  A lone figure occupied the place he wished to
go.  A feeling of disappointment ran through him.  It 
wasn't as if there weren't often people about, or even
right there, but tonight he had expected no one.  He had
expected to be alone, had wanted to be alone.  He sighed
once more even as he walked slowly closer.
     It was a woman wearing a belted and epauletted 
trenchcoat.  She stood with her back to him, looking 
out - as much as one could look out - over the harbour.  
Her long black tresses were damp with the light drizzle 
and gleamed strangely in the lamplight.  She was slight 
of figure and of good posture and Miller half wanted her 
to leave and half hoped she would stay.  There was something 
about a woman in such a trenchcoat . . .
     Miller stopped and waited.  He was now, perhaps, some 
twenty metres from her.  Behind her, back at the bench,
lay a backpack, bulging with its contents.  Hers, no doubt,
though why one would be here with a backpack while dressed
in a stylish trenchcoat was beyond him.
     Fog plays tricks with sound, makes it seem as if it
is coming from all sides, not from its source at all.  The
echo of the fog-horn resounded and Miller almost swore that
it came from behind him, from the land, though he knew that
this couldn't be true.  Still, he enjoyed the thought, the
mystery which the fog presented.  He grinned, perhaps some
ghost ship . . . .  The grin vanished.
     The plaintive sound of a ships whistle, a steam 
whistle no less, sounded, made melancholy by the fog.  
Miller wished he could see as he stared into the fog.  A
steam whistle!  Who would have a steam whistle in these
days?  It was impossible.  The impossible sounded once
more and every fiber of his being thrilled to it.  The
sound was that of loneliness exemplified.
     The woman ahead of him was likewise affected by the
whistle.  She tensed, strained to see, then her head hung
and she turned around, spirit broken by the echo which
uplifted Miller's own.  She sat down on the bench and the
tension drained out of her.  To Miller it seemed like the
very life drained out of her.  He stood, caught in the 
moment.  The moment was broken by a sob and Miller stepped
forward once more.  
     Not wishing to frighten her he stepped heavily and
his heels clicked against the asphalt of the pathway.  The
sobs stopped and the woman's head came round to look at
him.  He ignored her, instead moving out to where she had
been, looking out over the harbour as she had done.  He
took several deep breaths then turned and walked to the
bench, sitting himself down at the opposite end to the
woman.  He sat there a minute, still looking out into the
fog yet aware, nonetheless, that her eyes were on him. 
Then he spoke.
     "There's something special about this place, isn't
there?  Especially in the fog."  There was no reply.  "I
come here every night to this place where sea, land and
sky meet.  It's like a balm to the soul."  Still no reply.
"I don't recall seeing you here before," Miller didn't
know why he kept trying - it was obvious the lady didn't
want company.  "So what brings you to this place?"
     The words, when they came, were so low that Miller
had to strain to hear them.  "I have nowhere else to go."
The tremor in her voice told him that she was on the edge.
     "Why?" he asked softly.
     "Kicked out."  She laughed, the laugh bitter and 
without mirth, on the edge of hysteria.
     Miller wanted to ask 'why?' and 'by whom' but didn't
know how to.  Those were private areas.  It turned out
he didn't need to for, once the dam had broken, the words
just tumbled forth, sometimes making sense, sometimes
not.
     She had met a man and they had fallen in love, well,
she had fallen in love.  It had seemed that he had, too,
but now she wasn't so sure.  He had persuaded her to move
here, to the coast, so they could be together and she had
given up her job to do so.
     Finding work had been difficult, her money ran low and
her lover turned out to be somewhat less than she had 
expected, well, a lot less.  Finally she had taken a job 
as a waitress, which pleased him.  Then, yesterday, she 
had been let off early due to a very slow day, had gone home 
only to find her lover in bed with another woman.
     "He asked me to join them," her voice quavered, "and
became angry when I wouldn't.  I slept on the couch - I
have no friends here, have nowhere to go and no money for
a hotel.  When I woke up I found my bag packed with a note
pinned to it:  'Be gone when I get back'."  She seemed to
forget that he was even there.  Her voice fell to a mere
whisper, "What am I going to do?  I have nowhere to go."
     Bastard, thought Miller.  There was silence for a 
long time.  Minutes passed and neither made a move to
continue the conversation, or to leave, either.  Finally
he turned to look at her closely and noted that she was 
trembling . . . trembling, or was she shivering?
     "What's wrong?" he asked.
     "Cold," she mumbled
     "How long have you been here?"  He had a sneaking
suspicion he wouldn't like the answer.
     "Hours."
     Hours?  That decided him and he stood.  "You are
coming with me.  I'll take you to a shelter.  It'll be
warm there."
     "Warm?"  There was longing in her voice, wonder and
disbelief in her dull eyes.
     Miller picked up her pack and shouldered it.  It was
a little heavy, yet very light when one considered that 
these were the sum total of her possessions.  He reached
forth his hand and she took it, allowing him to help her
to her feet.  The hand was very cold.  Damn.
     Once on her feet the woman released his hand but took
hold of his sleeve for support.  Reassurance?  Together
they walked out of the park.  They would have to catch the
Number Eight bus, Miller thought.  The nearest stop was
two blocks the other side of his apartment building.  At
the speed they were moving it would take a while.
     She was walking ever more slowly and Miller felt
her shivering through her grip on his sleeve.  They passed
by his building and Miller heard her teeth start to chatter.
Damn.  She was hypothermic.  He turned around and she 
docilely allowed him to lead her to the building's front 
door.  As he turned the key in the lock he heard her ask a 
one word question.
     "Where?"
     He looked down to her puzzled face.  "Somewhere warm,"
he answered, and was relieved to see no hint of objection
in her expression.
     "Warm," she nodded, the word saying everything and
nothing.
     Inside the door he automatically checked the mail box
and pulled the envelopes from it before leading her through
the inner door and down the hall to his apartment.
     Miller snapped on the light and closed the door behind 
them.  He took off his coat and tossed it onto the back
of a chair which was standing in the closet.  Automatically 
he glanced through the mail, removed the two bills and 
dropped the rest on the junk-mail heap which overflowed
the chair's seat and spilled onto the floor.  It all took 
only a few seconds.  Then he turned to the woman.
     She was still shivering uncontrollably.  Miller
frowned.  He'd read about hypothermia and its stages
some years ago, but couldn't remember the details.
Tea, he decided, couldn't hurt.
     "Would you like some tea?" he asked.  She nodded,
though whether she understood or not he couldn't say.
"Okay, tea it is.  Here, let me help you with your
coat."  Her hands were shaking too violently to undo the 
buttons.  Quickly and surely he undid them for her and 
helped her off with the coat.  He swore softly.
     Under the coat she wore only a light dress.  And she
had been out there for hours!  What in hell had she been
thinking of, he wondered.  Probably nothing, he answered
himself.  As if he would have been able to do much better
the night he had returned to the suddenly empty apartment.
     Miller cleaned an area of the table, pushing the
empty pizza boxes, newspapers, telephone book and opened 
mail to one side.  He plugged in the kettle, set out two 
cups and pulled two bags of Ginger Tea from the box which 
sat on the counter.  While dropping the tea bags in the cups 
he noticed, again, her shaking hands.  No way she would be
able to drink the tea without spilling it all over herself,
he realized.
     "A bath.  A nice hot bath.  That's what you need.
It'll warm you up quick.  The tea can wait."  He turned off
the kettle.
     Without protest, she allowed herself to be helped back 
to her feet and led into the bathroom.  She sat down on the 
toilet seat while he began drawing the bath.
     She's a woman, he thought, so what do women like?  It
had been a while.  Bubble bath?  There was still some left 
under the sink, if he remembered correctly.  He searched for 
a few moments, found it and threw the crystals under the 
thundering water.  Bubbles frothed up and covered the water 
thickly, their scent, laden with memories, filling the room.  
He quashed the memories and turned to the woman.  She was 
vainly trying to undo the buttons of her dress with shaking
hands.  Finally she gave up and looked up at him, hopefully.
     Miller closed his eyes and sighed.  Resigned, he 
opened them once more and pulled her to her feet after
pulling off her socks - she had already kicked off her 
shoes.
     Again his fingers were deft and sure.  The dress was
now open to the waist and the woman shrugged it off her
shoulders.  It fell in a puddle around her ankles.  She
turned and presented her back to Miller.  With a mental
shrug he unhooked her bra.  It, too, fell to the floor.
Her back, he noted, was lightly tanned with no tan lines.
She stood, waiting, not moving - just stood, shaking.
Miller frowned again then, averting his gaze, squatted and
hooked a thumb in the waistband, one at each hip, and 
pulled her panties to the floor.  He stood and held
out his hand.
     The woman accepted it and, using him for balance, 
stepped into the tub.  She gasped as her foot encountered
the hot water but pressed on.  She sat down quickly, 
gasping once more.  Miller had a brief glimpse of her
breasts before they sank beneath the bubbles.  They were 
nicely formed, the thought came to him, and they, too,
showed no evidence of tan lines.
     "You okay?" he asked.
     She nodded.  Again he wasn't sure whether she really
understood or not.
     "I'll leave the door open.  Call if you need me.  I'll
get the tea ready."
     Miller returned to the kitchen and turned on the 
kettle once more.  Then he wandered into the laundry room.
There were two piles of clothes there:  dirty and clean.
When the dirty pile grew too large, he did a load.  When
they came out of the dryer he dumped them on the clean 
pile.  It seemed a waste of time and energy to go to the
trouble of hanging them up or putting them in drawers.
Down at the bottom of the clean pile he pulled out his
bath-robe - the one he never wore anymore.  Then he hunted
about for a clean towel or two.
     Miller gave a quiet knock on the open bathroom door,
paused for a second, then walked in.  He placed the robe
and the towels on the toilet seat, the cup of tea on the
ledge of the tub.  The bubbles were thinning a little and
he could almost make out her form as he set down the cup.  
He returned his gaze to her face.
     "Feeling better?" he asked.  He knew the answer to
that one before even asking.  Intelligence had returned
to her eyes.  They were no longer dull, unfocused.  They
had followed him in and had, no doubt, been aware of his
quick almost unconscious attempt to see through the veil 
of bubbles.  He acknowledged that and found he wasn't 
embarrassed.  Her arms were folded across her breasts
denying him a view of what he had already seen.  It didn't
seem to matter one way or the other.
     The woman nodded in answer to his question and her
now intelligent eyes considered him for a minute before
she asked her question, "Why?"
     He stepped back a pace, "I don't know," he said
shortly, then he turned and left the room, this time
closing the door behind him.

     There was nothing in the refrigerator except orange
juice.  It wasn't his habit to eat at home much.   She
would probably be hungry, though, he thought.  There wasn't
much in the cupboards either.  He contented himself with
boiling water for hot cereal - he did eat breakfast there.
She would have to be satisfied with that or go hungry.
He measured the cereal and stirred it into the hot water,
adding a small handful of raisins to the mix.
     Miller was busy washing one of the dirty bowls in the
sink when she walked in.  He heard the light pad of her 
feet and turned his head to acknowledge her.  She looked
hesitant.  He waved her over to the table and turned back
to the dish.
     Funny, he thought, how her naked body had been so
sexless but, now that she was back in the land of the
living, how the vee at the neck of the robe had him 
interested in seeing more.  It was, he decided, the 
animation in her face, such as it was, that caused her
to be attractive, sexy.  He imagined the slight body
under his robe, moving for him.  He quashed that 
thought, too, but it was too late, she had seen it in
his eyes.
     "Hungry?" he asked.
     "Yes," her reply was cautious, unsure.  "Yes I am."
     "You get potluck," he told her, bringing the now
clean bowl to the table and setting it in front of her,
"and the luck of the pot is hot cereal."  He didn't
smile.
     "Hot cereal would be wonderful," she replied, her
voice still careful.  She looked up at him, a question
in her eyes, then she started.  "Oh!  My pack.  I left 
my pack in the park . . ." she stopped as he held up his
hand to quiet her.
     "It's okay.  I brought it.  It's in the bedroom."
     The question in her eyes was gone and they went sick 
with the sure knowledge of its answer.  Although she didn't 
move, she seemed to slump in her chair, too tired, too 
resigned to do anything else.  It took Miller a second, 
then he clued in.
     "Perhaps I should rephrase that," he told her.  "The
bag is in *your* bedroom."  Miller was relieved to see
the dread leave her face to be replaced by a wary hope.
"I," he said, to complete her recovery, "shall be sleeping
in *my* bedroom.  And, as I am very tired and it is very
late for me, I will be going there soon."  He pulled the
pot of cereal off the stove and carried over to the table
where he ladled out the contents into her bowl.  He left
her the stirring spoon to eat with.
     "I don't have milk - don't drink it.  I use orange
juice instead," Miller pulled the jug from the fridge,
snagged a glass from the dish rack and placed them down
in front of her.
     "Thank you . . ." she paused, obviously looking for
him to fill in the blank.
      "Miller."
      "Thank you, Mr. Miller."  She poured the juice, then
began to eat.  She was obviously quite hungry and Miller
was glad that he'd made a fair bit of cereal.
      "Just Miller.  Your bedroom is on the left, just
past the bathroom.  Mine is on the right.  You are free
to make yourself at home.  I'm going to bed."  He turned
and left.  Having someone else in his home was just too
much to deal with.  There had been no-one here since . . .
in a long time.  He didn't know why it should tire him so,
it just did.  He stopped and turned back.
     "If you decide to leave, please lock the door on
your way out, miss."
     "Janice," she called to his retreating back, "my
name is Janice."
     "Goodnight, Janice," he called back.
     "Goodnight, Miller."
     He barely heard the reply as he entered his bedroom,
cursing himself for the fool that he was.  Who knew who
or what this woman was?  He surely didn't.  Perhaps she was 
a druggie and would steal anything she could - and some
of his equipment was worth a lot.  Let her.  It didn't
really matter anymore.  Besides, her arms were clean,
he remembered - no signs of needle use.
     He was tired and undressed quickly and went to
bed, pulling the covers over himself.  He set the alarm,
turned off the bedside light and went to sleep.

     Six o'clock in the morning came way too soon for
Miller, who stumbled out of bed, and headed for the 
bathroom before really waking up.  He blinked at his 
reflection in the mirror, wondering if it were truly 
worth it to have a mirror in the bathroom where one 
would see the worst side of one's self - the early morning 
side.  His eyes fell to the sink and he froze.  There was 
a second toothbrush there, sitting in its plastic case. 
Memories of the previous night came flooding back and he 
was suddenly wide awake.
     So, she had stayed.  Small wonder, really, if she were 
telling the truth and had nowhere else to go.  Fortunate 
that she was still abed, he thought ruefully, or she might 
have had quite a surprise as he came walking up the hall, 
naked.  It was so long since there had been anyone else in 
his apartment that he had ceased worrying about his state 
of dress.  The drapes were pulled and no one could see him 
from the outside, so what did it matter?
     He turned on the shower and stepped in.  It was 
definitely strange, to think that there was someone sleeping 
on the other side of the bathroom wall.  He lathered up, 
wondering what he was going to do about that situation.
 
     That should about do it, Miller thought as he lay down 
the pencil.  There, in the centre of the cleared area of 
the table, was a sheet of paper on which he had placed two 
keys.  One was labeled 'door key - apartment', the other 
'door key - building'.  If she wanted to go out and come 
back in, she would now be able to  do so.  He hoped that 
she would just disappear.  He was too comfortable with his
life as it was to welcome such a disruption.  He left the
pencil laying on the paper.  If she wished to write him
a note, she would be able to do so.
   
     The fog had disappeared.  It looked like the weather
bureau had been right - their timing just off by a day.
It promised to be a warm day, and more were to follow -
if you wished to believe the forecast.  
     Work progressed as usual.  His assistant showed up at
nine, almost two hours after Miller had started work, and
they worked together until eleven, when Miller took his
lunch break.  There was something very satisfying about
taking a useless piece of equipment and restoring use
to it.  Miller even enjoyed the challenges, the ones where
it was difficult to figure out just what was wrong.  It was 
work which allowed him to apply his full concentration, to
blot out everything else.  It was a good way to make it
through each day.
     At lunch, however, there was something new to think
about.  There was a stranger in his apartment and he had
given her free reign to clean him out.  He wondered if
anything would be left when he returned that night.  What
a fool he was!  He shrugged.  If he was going to be cleaned 
out, then well and fine.  He just hoped that she would 
leave some of the furniture.  The television, VCRs, stereo
equipment - hell, he never even turned them on anymore.
What loss if they were to turn up missing.  He'd have to
have his locks changed, though.  She - what was her name?
Ah, yes, Janice - had a key to the door.  More foolishness.
   
     The afternoon presented itself with a tricky problem.
Both Miller and his assistant were stumped.  It was one
of those intermittent problems which are so hard to track
down.  They finally traced it to a cold-solder joint - or
hoped they had.  Only time would tell, in the long run.
     "Gods, that was fun, Ben," Miller exclaimed after
they put the set back together.
     "Fun?" Ben was awestruck.  "That's your idea of fun?"
He looked at the clock.  "Well, Miller, fun it might have
been for you, but fun for me is waiting at home, and it
is time I was heading in that direction."  He studied his
boss for a moment.  "Why not come with me.  We can close
up on a high - we have triumphed over evil yet again - and 
we can enjoy the game together.  Wendy'll be more than 
happy to have you over for supper.  It's been too long
since you were last over."
     "Thanks, Ben.  Maybe another day."
     Ben shrugged, seemingly indifferent to the rebuff.
"Sure, Miller, another time.  You should get out, though.
The weather finally broke, the sun's out, it's warm and
all is right with the world.  Why not take off a little
early?"
     "I might just do that, Ben," he replied, mainly to
get Ben off his back.  He had no intention of following
his advice.  "First, though, I want to fix the speakers.
Mrs. Watkins will be in tomorrow afternoon for them.  I
promised they'd be ready."
     "Goodnight, Miller."
     "'Night, Ben.  Don't forget to put out the 'closed'
sign."
     Miller immersed himself in his work until his usual
quitting time, then picked up his coat, set the alarm and
locked the door.
     It was still quite warm out and all the buildings
stood out in sharp relief.  The fog was gone and the 
ugliness of the world impressed itself once more.
 
     "Miller, the sound system you installed is perfect.
Ah, listen to that!"  Dan wore a beatific expression.
     "Thanks, Dan."  Miller was suspicious.  "Why do you
bring it up?"  The system had been installed three years
previously.
     "You do not like the music?" Dan looked surprised.
     "The music is beautiful, Dan.  Now, why do you bring
it up?"  Miller persisted, wondering how Dan was going to
work this into his theme.
     "Yes, beautiful."  Dan seemed to consider it.  "Yes,
it is.  It was you who brought such beauty into my place, 
Miller, and it seems only fitting that the Driftwood should 
be a place where you can relax and find some beauty to 
bring into your own life."  He hurried on past Miller's 
sigh.  "Now take Cheryl, for example.  Is she not 
beautiful?" he asked.  "Smile at her, Miller."
     "Why, Dan?"
     "Miller," Dan shook his head sadly, "do you need a
reason to smile at a pretty young woman?  Shame Miller,
shame."  Miller laughed.  "Smile at her and she will smile
back.  Ah, her smile, Miller, her smile!  Surely that
prize is worth the price."  Dan's voice lowered as the
woman in question slipped past them and into the kitchen.
     "I'll have a bowl of chili, Dan."
     "Ah, Miller, what will we do with you?"  Dan gave the
impression of a man exasperated.  "Very well, chili.  But
consider the smile."
     "Is the chili hot?"
     "Of course.  You know Sandra."
     Miller looked at Dan curiously.  "Do you think the
chili is hotter than Hell?"
     Now Dan was surprised.  He had no idea what brought
that question forth.  Usually Miller merely commented that
the chili *was* hotter than Hell.  "Now, Miller, it is very 
hot in Hell, I think.  Sandra's chili is hot, but I think, 
perhaps, Hell is hotter."
     Miller gave Dan a closed-mouth smile.  "You know, I
think you may be right.  I'll take my usual seat."

     Cheryl set down the food in front of Dan, then stood
a moment waiting.
     "Yes?"
     "I was wondering if you had another complaint, Mr.
Miller."
     "Complaint?"  He was confused but then he remembered.
"No, no complaint.  I'm only allowed one complaint a week
and I used it yesterday."  His voice was warm enough, but
he didn't smile.  "Thank-you for asking, though."
     "You're welcome, Mr. Miller."
     "Just Miller," he corrected, surprised that she had
remembered his name.  He watched her as she walked away.
There was a certain sway to her hips that was quite
intriguing.  He caught himself.  It was still quite hot
in Hell, he reminded himself.  Still quite hot in Hell.

     Harbourfront Park had its usual assortment of people
enjoying its beauty and Miller's bench was occupied by 
an older couple.  He stood, instead, at the railing and
looked out over the harbour, listening to the waves as
they lapped at the rocks beneath the wall.  He stood a
long time, until he realized that he was merely delaying 
his return to his apartment.
     A harsh laugh came to his lips when he realized that
he was more worried about finding her still there than
he was about finding her, and everything else, gone.
     He would, he knew, eventually have to go there.  He
would, eventually, find out.  He gave up looking out over
the harbour.  It had lost its appeal.  He couldn't even
engage in his favourite fantasy - that of getting on a
ship and just leaving the life he knew behind.  It was
all of no use so he turned and began the walk back to his
apartment.
     There was no mail to delay him, no parcels encumbered
him, yet Miller found his pace slow as he walked down the 
hall to his door.  He hesitated, his key at the lock, 
knowing in his gut that the apartment had been cleaned out.  
He had been foolish, and his hesitation was simply an 
attempt to delay the proof of that foolishness.
     "The hell with it", he muttered and turned the key.
     He had been only half right, he thought to himself
as he made his dazed way through the entrance hall and
into the living room.  The place hadn't been cleaned out,
but it had been cleaned.  The pile of junk mail had been
picked up and placed in a bag, ready for disposal.  His
shoes and boots had been neatly lined up in the closet,
and the living room was also neat and tidy.  The books
and newspapers which had been strewn on the floor and
couch had all been nicely stacked or replaced in his
bookshelf.  On top of all that, the carpet had been
vacuumed.
     Miller looked around, partly pleased, partly
dismayed.  The room somehow began to look alive again,
as an integral part of a home, not just a place where
he occasionally read.  It began to look the way it 
looked before . . . 
     Miller turned and left the room.  The kitchen was,
he noted with relief, mostly the way it had been left, 
though the sink was now empty.  The table still had
its mound of rubble upon it.  The keys were no longer
on the piece of paper he had left, so she had them.
     Before heading for the bathroom to complete his
evening's toilet, he checked the spare bedroom.  Her
things were still there, so she was obviously planning
on coming back.  Oh, well . . .
     
     Miller groaned in his sleep, then came awake with
a start.  He was covered in sweat and had thrown off
the single sheet that had covered him.  He blinked trying
to get his bearings, trying to throw off the effects of 
the dream.
     "Miller?"
     He froze, half daring to believe for a moment before
reality came crashing down on him.
     "Miller?  Are you okay?"  
     It was her.  The woman.  Janice.  She was in his room, 
not just standing by the door, but right there in his room.  
And she was coming closer, he judged by her voice.
     "Miller?"  Her voice was soft, caring.
     "'S'all right," he husked, "just a bad dream.  Go back
to bed."  He was on his stomach, face turned to the wall,
all too aware of his nakedness, wishing she would leave so
he could towel himself off, change his sheets.  The warm
air of the room felt cool as the perspiration began 
evaporating and he felt a shiver run through him.
     "Are you sure?"
     He tensed as he felt the hand on his shoulder, wishing
she'd go the hell back to her room and let him be.  Her
hand lifted from his shoulder.  Thanks be to the gods,
he thought.  His thanks was short-lived.  He heard a faint
sound of fabric against skin, then felt her begin to wipe 
him down with whatever she'd been using as nightwear.
     She started at his neck and, with slow careful strokes,
made her way down his torso, not missing an inch.  Miller
was so nonplused that he didn't know what to do.  He just
lay there and took it.  
     The soft cotton felt good against his skin, the short
careful strokes tenderly drying him.  She was down to the
small of his back, now, and he became nervous.  Just how
far was she going to take this?  His eyes widened in the
darkness as she began the ascent to his buttocks and he
carefully closed his legs the small distance they were
apart.
     He wanted her to stop, yet said nothing.  He hated
himself for saying nothing, for lacking the willpower to
tell her to stop.  It felt so good, these caring gentle
strokes, and he didn't want it to feel good.  Why couldn't
she just leave and leave him alone; leave and leave him 
alone in his room; leave and leave him alone in his 
apartment; leave and leave him alone in his misery?  He 
was used to it.  It didn't hurt anymore.  Didn't she know
she was dredging up old pains, bringing the hurt back
to the surface?
     The soft strokes passed his buttocks and went down
his legs, those careful, caring strokes.  Miller felt 
himself wanting more, wanting it to end, not knowing what
he wanted.  She gave a soft push at his leg, wanting him
to spread them.  He didn't.  She trailed fingers up his
leg, up and over his buttock, then down to his hip.  She
pulled gently, as if trying to tip him over onto his back.
It was obvious what she wanted.  He refused to budge.
He thought he heard a soft sigh then felt the fingers
trail their way up his back, up to his neck, then disappear.
     Miller turned his head as he felt her rise and heard
her soft footsteps heading for the door.  She had left the
light on in her room and was thus silhouetted in the frame
of his door, against the wall opposite.  Miller gave a
little gasp.  She was wearing nothing, holding the t-shirt
in her hand.  She was, he realized, beautiful.  He caught
a quick glance at her profile as she turned to walk down
the hall, then she was gone.
     After her light went out Miller got up and completed
the work she had begun, carefully wiping himself dry,  
carefully avoiding the proof of his excitement at her
touch until it faded away.
     Dry, Miller went back to bed, lying on the opposite
side of the large mattress - the side he usually avoided.
It was a long time before he slept and the alarm rang
much too early.

     "Hi, Miller," Cheryl smiled at him as he walked in
to the Driftwood.
     Miller nodded in return.  He walked to the bar and
glared at Dan.  "You've been talking to her about me,
haven't you?"
     "Well, perhaps your name came up?  Is this a problem?"
Dan was the picture of innocence.
     "Damn right it's a problem," Miller surprised Dan 
with his vehemence.  Even more surprising, to both of them, 
he turned and walked out.  
     The park offered no balm to his soul, either, and he
left it shortly after he arrived.  He was hungry, too.  His
burst of temper had lost him his supper.  Mentally kicking
himself for his weakness, Miller walked into an open grocery
store and wandered up and down the aisles picking out this
and that.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd been 
shopping.  Usually he knew exactly what he wanted, went
into whatever store he had chosen, purchased it and left.
This time he didn't know what he wanted.
     Supper, he decided as he chose his ingredients, would
be homemade soup, fish sticks and fried rice with a salad 
on the side.  It had been a long time since he had really 
cooked, and he wasn't looking forward to cleaning up the 
kitchen before he began.  He needn't have worried.  When 
he stepped into the kitchen, everything was neat and clean.  
Even the ever-present dish rack had been put away.  
Apparently Janice was a neat-freak,  he thought.  The table 
was cleared as well, which surprised him.  He wondered what 
the hell she had done with his stuff.  A stroll into the 
'den' showed him what she had done.
     In his 'den' - how they could call the little cubby-
hole a 'den' was more than he could fathom - he found the
mail in piles, neatly stacked according to function:  Bills,
statements, other.  The telephone book now resided under
the telephone - how quaint.  He was somewhat annoyed that
she had been in his den, it was a private place, but then
he *had* told her to make herself at home.  He shook his 
head and returned to the kitchen.
     As he had started so late, Janice returned before 
he had finished cooking.  She looked dead on her feet.  
Miller waved her to a chair and set a place in front of 
her.  He could see she was surprised but she did not say
anything.  Perhaps she was embarrassed about her rebuff
of the night before, perhaps not.  Miller didn't care.
He didn't feel like talking anyway so he was satisfied
with the silence.  
     Together, they ate in silence.  As they ate Janice
seemed to gain in energy while his own seemed to wane.  
She concentrated on her food and, without seeming to, 
he concentrated on her face.  It was a finely molded
face, nicely framed by the black tresses which she had
released from captivity - probably a requirement of the
restaurant - with a small straight nose and a cleanly
defined chin.  Looking at her Miller couldn't help but be
reminded of how she had looked as she had left his room,
of that nice triangular flow of her back which then 
widened out at her hips, then of the profile as she
turned.  She had been completely unselfconscious, he
realized, though that shouldn't surprise him, given
the lack of tan lines.
     Damn.  Caught.  Miller lowered his eyes to his
plate once more and concentrated on eating, avoiding
her gaze.  He could avoid catching it, yet couldn't avoid
feeling it on him and his pulse quickened, freeing up 
energy, exciting him.  Finally, unable to stand it any
longer he looked up and caught her with a considering
expression on her face.  It was her turn to look away,
and something in that look dampened his excitement.
     Miller rose from the table and cleared the dishes.
He placed them in the sink.  She could do them if she
wanted or he would do them in the morning as was his
habit - when he did do dishes.
     "I'm going to bed," he told her.  He wasn't going
to get all that much sleep this night.  Maybe he would
allow himself to sleep in an hour.
     "It was a lovely meal, thank-you, Miller," Janice
smiled at him.  "Mind if I listen to some music while I
wind down?"
     "Do as you wish," Miller told her offhandedly.  It
really didn't matter, but hearing the music would serve
to remind him that she was there, which he very much wanted
to forget at that juncture.  The thought of her, of her
naked figure, would only serve to keep him from sleep.

     Miller was beginning to hate his alarm clock.  He had
compromised with himself and had given himself another half 
hour.  It hadn't been enough, but he stumbled out of bed, 
nonetheless.  
     In the kitchen, much to his dismay, he found that
the dishes had been washed and put away.  It was, he knew,
only fair division of labour, but he hadn't asked for
help and didn't want it.  Not wanting it forced him to
do his own dishes after he'd finished breakfast, which
wasn't to his liking.  He seemed to have a fondness for
leaving something in the sink at all times.  He didn't 
like the sink to be empty.  Something in the sink meant
someone in the apartment, therefore he tended towards
doing dishes before a meal, then leaving that meal's dishes
for the next.  It irritated him that he was changing his
ways simply because he had let some stranger into his
residence.  She should conform to his ways, he thought 
petulantly, rather than the other way around.  That 
thought caused him to laugh out loud at himself as he 
closed the apartment door behind him.  
     Departing from his usual routine, Miller made a 
detour through the park before going to work and met 
a very surprised Ben who was working the lock.
     "Thought you might be sick," Ben told him as he 
entered the password into the alarm.  "This is the first
time I've beat you to work in months."  He considered his
boss, his friend, for a moment or two.  "Are you okay?
I can handle the shop, you know."
     Miller smiled.  "I'm fine.  I just decided to take
a little walk, that's all.  I'll put in an extra effort
today to make up for it.  Don't want you docking my
wages."
     Ben laughed, "Just don't let it happen again - at 
least not today."
     A couple of hours later the door-chime rang and Miller
moved to the front of the shop to handle the customer.  It
was Sandra, which surprised him.  She held out a portable
tape player.
     "It will not run, Miller," she told him, studying him
intently.
     Miller hefted it then, hiding a smile, opened the
battery compartment.  He studied it for a moment.
     "It needs batteries, Sandra."
     "Ah?"  She looked for herself at the empty battery
compartment.  "Do you know, I thought I had changed them.
This is a great relief, I am rather fond of this little
machine - Dan gave it to me - and I would hate to think I
had broken it.  Thank-you, Miller."
     Miller waited.  
     "Miller?"  Her voice was soft.  "Dan is terribly 
sorry.  He did not mean to upset you.  He does not know 
what to do, how to apologize - he is a man - so I have come 
here instead."
     "Does Dan know you are here?" Miller asked quietly.
     Sandra gave him a look of pure exasperation.  "Of 
course not, Miller.  If I told him he would make a fuss -
men are so hard-headed - and then I would have to lie
to him and tell him I would not go.  And I would be here,
same as now, so why tell him?  This way is so much easier,
do you not think so?"  She quirked an eyebrow.
     "Much easier," Miller agreed, trying not to grin as he
plugged a couple of batteries into the player.  "There you
are, all fixed.  No charge," he waved off her attempt to
pay him for the batteries.
     "You will come back, Miller?  You are a good customer,
yes, but you are more than that.  You are a friend.  If we 
lose you as a customer, this is regrettable, but there are 
other customers.  If we lose you as a friend - Miller, we 
do not have so many friends we can afford to lose one.
     "Was it really so bad, what Dan did?  When we came to
this country, to this city and opened up our little place,
you came and you helped, made us feel welcome.  You do not
know what this means to us, Miller.  We come here and we 
are worried.  How will it be?  Will we be accepted?  It 
is a big move we made.  Then we see you, and you help
and you do not ask for anything.  We look at each other,
Dan and I, and we know - this is home.
     "Now we see you hurting,"  she waved off his denial,
"and we want to help.  But this for you is a private thing
and you want no help.  We are your friends, Miller, and
friends cannot stand by and do nothing - they cannot.  So
we try and sometimes mistakes are made . . ." she paused.
"I do not see what was so wrong that . . . . Perhaps you
would explain it to me, Miller?  I would like to know,
to understand."
     Miller looked around, trying to think of something
to say.  He shook his head slowly.  "It was a matter of
very bad timing, Sandra.  There is another situation . . ."
he broke off, groaning to himself as Sandra's eyes
sharpened.
    "Ah, a situation," she confirmed, as if it explained
everything.  
     A smile came unbidden to her lips, a very womanly 
smile, in Miller's opinion, a very knowing smile.  It made
her look very sexy.
     "Perhaps later you will tell me about this situation,
yes, Miller?"  She laughed, her eyes sparkling.  "But now I 
must go or I will be late.  You will come back, Miller?"
     "I'll come back," he agreed.
     "Dan will not bring these matters up again," Sandra
promised as she pushed open the door.
     "Sandra?"  
     She turned back.
     "Don't make promises Dan can't keep."
     Her rich laughter echoed in his mind long after she
had departed.

     "Buy you a drink, Miller?"  Dan poured a glass of
white wine.  He seemed very happy to see Miller even though
he tried to disguise this.
     "Thank-you.  That's very kind of you."  Miller took
a seat at the bar.  He tasted the wine and nodded 
approvingly, though he knew he would like it.  Dan stocked
it specially for him.  The pair of them lapsed into silence 
as they watched the other patrons and listened to the music.
Finally Miller decided to break the silence.
     "What have you in the way of redheads tonight, Dan?"
     "Redheads?"  Dan looked at Miller quizzically then
turned his attention to the room.  There were none to be
seen.  "You have done this on purpose, Miller," Dan 
accused him outwardly though secretly he was pleased, 
"knowing that . . . . But wait, one is coming through 
the door just now.  Ah, and a fine looking woman she is."
     Miller turned to look, sure that Dan was pulling his
leg, to see that there was, indeed, a redhead making her
way towards a table.  She was accompanied by two other
women.
     "Too short, Dan, I think."
     "Nonsense, Miller.  Look, she is wearing flats.  Put
some heels on her and she will be just the right height
for dancing with.  Go, Miller, go now and ask her to dance.
Even without the heels it will work, yes, I am sure it
will."
     "Is she not too young?" Miller found himself copying
Dan's more precise patterns of speech.
     "Not at all.  Youth is good.  She will have stamina,
it will be a good match.  There will be much fun, many
good times," Dan warmed to his sales pitch, well aware that
Miller would wiggle out of it somehow.
     "Perhaps," Miller pursed his lips, seeming to consider
the idea, "but what shall I do on Wednesdays?"
     "Wednesdays?"  Dan blanked.
     "Yes, you yourself told me that on Wednesdays I don't
like redheads.  She would become angry, I fear, and leave
me.  And even if she didn't, on Wednesdays I would be
miserable.  I'm afraid it won't work, Dan."
     Dan thought for a moment.  "Do not be too hasty,
Miller.  She has two friends.  Perhaps if you took one of
them as well . . ."
     "As well?"  Miller's brows shot up.
     "Yes, as well," Dan didn't seem to see anything wrong
with the suggestion.  "Then on Wednesdays you would have
a blonde, you would be happy; she would have a rest and be
secure in the knowledge that her man was content and would
be back with her on Thursday."
     Miller choked on his drink, recovered and considered
it.  His brows came down in a troubled question, "You don't 
think the blonde would mind?"
     "I do not see why, but it is a good question.  I will
go over and ask."  Dan started moving around the bar only
to be stopped as Miller grabbed his arm.
     "Enough.  Peace?"
     "Okay, Miller, peace.  Another glass of wine, 
perhaps?"

     Perhaps it was the third glass of wine or perhaps it 
was the relaxing of tensions, but whatever it was Miller
was feeling very good as he walked home and it didn't even
occur to him that at no point in his stay did the 
atmosphere of the Driftwood become oppressive.  All he
knew was that it was a wonderfully warm night and he was
feeling very content.
     Once at home, which was funny for he hadn't thought 
of his apartment as 'home' in a long time, he went into
the den and began to write cheques for the bills which
had to be paid.  He worked steadily for some minutes, 
then sighed as he sealed the last envelope and put a 
stamp on it.  It had taken him a moment to find the
bill from the credit card company for it had been in
the pile of financial statements, not bills.  That 
being done, he decided to turn in.
     The afternoon and evening sun had been shining 
through his bedroom window, making the room hot and 
stuffy.  After preparing for bed he opened the window 
before lying down.  It was still too hot to be covered 
and, as the low for the night was supposed to be fairly 
high, he doubted he would need covers at all.  
     Within minutes of lying down Miller was asleep.

     There was something wrong.  He simply knew it.  He had
that gut-churning deep-seated knowledge that something was
wrong.  The apartment was empty when it shouldn't be empty,
silent when it shouldn't be silent.  He knew that he could 
still make it to the bus station if he ran, but he couldn't 
seem to run.  In fact he couldn't move.  If he could just 
move an arm, a finger, just shout, just anything, the 
paralysis would be broken and he could run, could stop her, 
could stop the terrible emptiness from filling the room, the 
terrible silence from drowning him.  He tried to shout but 
couldn't.  He tried to move but couldn't.  The letter was 
cold, terribly cold, like ice in his hand and the cold and 
emptiness in the letter swept past his hand and through his 
body like an arctic storm, freezing his voice, stiffening 
his muscles so that now, when he needed them most, they 
betrayed him.  The black miasma of despair enveloped him, 
cold and unyielding.
     Warmth.  There was a spot of warmth in the middle of
his back and spreading.  The emptiness began to fade away,
draining from the room, and there was sound.  He heaved a
sigh and the tension singing in his muscles subsided, 
allowing them to relax, allowing him to relax.  It was
okay, it would all be okay.  He was no longer alone.
     The warmth continued to spread and he continued to
relax, the low hum music in his ears.
     Miller's eyes snapped open.  He was awake.  Warm hands
ran up and down his back, gently massaging away the tension
and knots.  His lower body had been covered, he realized,
and a glance upwards showed him that the window had been
closed.  He didn't move, yet something must have betrayed
the fact that he was awake.
     "Just a bad dream, Miller, just a bad dream," Janice
whispered at him, before continuing to hum her little
refrain.  He allowed his body to relax and recognized that
the sudden tension must have let her know that he had
awakened.  "Yes, relax, just relax."  Her hands were like
magic, warming him through.
     She was kneeling on the bed beside him, her thigh 
touching his hip, a beacon of warmth.  The unevenness of
the warmth caused a small shiver to run down his back and
at once Janice lowered her torso to his back, covering him,
radiating such a warmth as he had never before felt.  
     It was skin against skin for she was naked, too, he
realized and the realization excited him.  After a minute
she raised herself up and back onto her haunches, her 
nipples hard nubbins which traced a path across his back.
Then her hands, her magical hands went to work once again,
soothing and kneading.  One hand worked its way up his
neck and slipped into his hair, fingers spread.  A light
circular massage set his scalp aflame, and he groaned with
pleasure.  The groan was echoed by a hiss of delight from
her.
     The hands moved down his back once more, then up onto
his buttocks, moving the covers further down.  With the
window now closed the room was heating up again and he 
was almost comfortable.  Her hands kneaded his rear then
slid down the outsides of his legs then up the insides.
He parted his legs to allow her access and again he heard
her breathe out a quiet 'yes' though her teeth in her own
peculiar hiss.  He shivered again, but this time it was
not with cold.
     Janice worked on his feet, on his calfs, on his thighs, 
then trailed her fingers up his legs up on past his rear, 
up his back to his shoulders then back down again.  She 
repeated the move several times then stopped at his 
shoulder.  He had been expecting this and when she lifted 
his nearside shoulder he allowed her to turn him over and 
again heard her 'yes' hiss out.
     Her hands moved over his chest skillfully, then down
over his abdomen, neatly avoiding the hardness as they 
made the circle then returned upwards.  Miller could see
her in the pale light of the moon and she was beautiful.
He might, he admitted to himself, be a touch prejudiced,
yet that was fine, too.
     Miller reached his hands upwards and let them slide
down over her shoulders, her upper chest, across her 
breasts and down to her stomach.  He loved the way her
body gave a little jump as his fingers crossed her
nipples, filled with joy at the knowledge that he was
returning the joy she was giving to him.  It felt so
good that he did it again, then once more.  He smiled
as she sucked in her breath in the same way she breathed
out, making a hissing sound.  Then his thumbs found her
nipples as his fingers lightly touched the sensitive 
undersides of her breasts and her mouth made a silent oh, 
a perfect letter 'O'. 
     The letter 'O', the perfect statement of joy, he
thought, then his thoughts took a dark turn.  In the
way of the mind, associations were made and all of the
joy left him.  Statement.  Yes, she had seen his letters,
his statements.  He frowned, and she noticed the change.
     "What is it, Miller?" she queried, her eyes dark 
with desire - but desire for what?
     "What is it you want?" he asked, his excitement
dampened.  "Why are you doing this?  Is it for me or
for my money?"  She had plenty of time to look over
the bank statements, the statements from his mutual
funds - everything.
     Janice stopped what she was doing and sat back.
She gave him what he felt to be a long, considering
look, her mouth pursed.
     "Money is . . ." she was unable to complete her
sentence for he had his answer.
     "I thought so," Miller interrupted, his voice sad and
quiet.  "And how much to have you gone, gone back to where
ever it is you want to be?  How much for me to be free
again?"  His eyes were dark stars, shuttered against
all feeling.
     "To have me gone, to regain your freedom, you need
only say the word 'go'."  Janice paused to let that sink
in.  When Miller made no reply she continued.  "I am not
at home in your city.  I wish to return to my own.  There
I have contacts who will help me resume my old life, but 
you are correct, it will take money for I cannot go back
on bended knee, begging for a handout.  I can ask for 
favours, but only from a position of strength.  If you wish 
to help, I will need about four thousand dollars."  She
paused again and again Miller made no reply.  "Now, can
we finish what we started?"  Janice moved her hands against
Millers chest, but her wrists were caught by his hands
and held.  He then released them.
     "Please go to bed," was all he said and he turned
over to escape the hurt look on her face.  As if she had
anything to feel hurt about, he thought, it wasn't he
who had been after her money.
     
     Miller woke before the alarm.  He awoke, and for once
he was wide awake as soon as his eyes opened.  He padded
out, naked, to his den, found his hidden key and opened the 
side door of his double pedestal desk to reveal the safe 
concealed within.  He spun the combination and opened the 
door.  There should be enough, he thought as he began 
counting out the one hundred dollar bills.  Four thousand 
dollars, she had said, and his emergency fund usually sat 
at around five.
     Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty.  Four thousand
dollars.  "Ah, hell," he mumbled and added two fifties and 
five twenties.  He scooped them up into a neat pile, opened
an envelope and tucked them in.  On the cover he wrote,
'Janice' and closed the envelope.  He left it on the
kitchen table.

     Ben found Miller hard at work when he arrived, hard
at work and taciturn.  Recognizing his boss to be in one
of 'those' moods, he merely went about his own work, 
quietly and efficiently.  There was nothing to be done
when Miller was like that, Ben knew, and so he did nothing.
Miller recognized all of this and he would thank Ben later
when he was more able to.  Just now all he wanted was
silence.
     Something must show in his face, Miller thought, for
even Dan said nothing when he entered.  He merely poured
Miller a glass of wine and stood by as they both surveyed
the crowd.  Miller was only going through the motions, and
he knew it.  He ate merely to eat, to supply the body - it
gave him no pleasure.  He drank his wine merely out of 
habit.  It, too, gave him no pleasure.
     Cheryl came by and looking on her gave him no pleasure
either, though she made a special effort to be nice.  He
left a large tip, acknowledging that effort though he could 
not appreciate it.  
     Miller looked around.  There was nothing for him here.
He stood and headed out the door where he met Sandra coming
in.  It was, he belatedly realized, her day off.
     "Hot day out, yes, Miller?"  she smiled at him, 
seeming unaware of his dark mood.
     "Not as hot as in Hell, Sandra," he replied, his own
smile without any humour whatsoever.
     Sandra raised her eyebrows at his tone, "Perhaps not, 
Miller, perhaps not, but it is becoming closer, no?"
     Miller shrugged, patted Sandra on the arm and left.
No reason to allow his mood to spoil the moods of others,
he was better off alone.
     It would be a waste of time and effort to go to the
park.  Even the thought of indulging in his fantasy of
leaving on a ship brought no pleasure.  He would go home,
he decided, and read a book.  It would be good to have
the place to himself again.
     Miller closed the door behind him and he knew by the
feel of the place that Janice was gone.  Still, he walked
by the room that had been hers and looked inside.  It was
neat and tidy and empty.  He nodded, unsurprised.  She had
what she wanted and, now, so too did he.
     The place was empty and clean.  He pulled a book out
of the bookcase and began to read.  It was too quiet.
Miller shrugged and turned on the stereo.  The soft music
did nothing to enable him to relax into the book.  He 
dropped the book to the floor and stood up.  He looked down
at the book in irritation and picked it up to replace it
in the bookcase.
     The kitchen was empty and silent, too, as he prepared
a cup of ginger tea.  The table and counter tops were clean
and empty.  Everything was empty.  That bothered him.  He
felt he was missing something.  It wasn't until he was 
lying in bed that it came to him.  The keys.  She had
forgotten to return the keys.  He would have to have
another set cut.

    *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

     The brisk autumn air invigorated him as he strode
down the street towards the Driftwood.  In his coat pocket
was the letter he had found in his mailbox that morning -
he had forgotten to check the mail the previous night.
He had not yet opened it.
     The Driftwood was quiet for it was still very early.
Ben had been surprised when he had taken his leave, 
requesting that he, Ben, lock the door whenever he felt
like leaving himself.  Dan was surprised to see him so early 
and more surprised when Miller accepted his wine and went 
straight to his table without stopping to chat.  Like Ben,
Dan merely smiled and let him alone.
     Sitting at his table, Miller pulled out the envelope
and looked at the return address once more.  He turned it
over a few times, feeling its unusual heft, then finally 
slit it open.  He pulled out the folded sheet of paper,
opened it and caught the two other small papers which
fell from inside.  One was a cheque, the other a card on
which were taped two keys.  Under the keys was a very
short note:  There is warmth within.
     Miller stared at the words for a long time then he
looked up and leaned back in his chair, his eyes unfocused,
remembering.

     Miller had thought he would never get to sleep, but
he must have for he was suddenly aware of waking up.  It
was still dark and he had the feeling that he hadn't been
asleep long.  He wasn't sure what had disturbed him, and
then he was.  There was movement.  Here.  In his room.
     Carefully, slowly, Miller turned his head to look
at the intruder.
     "Ah, you are awake, Miller," Janice said softly.
     Miller couldn't quite grasp that she had returned.
"What . . . ?"
     "What am I doing here?" Janice asked for him.  "That
is a good question, isn't it?"  She paused while he nodded.
"I have the money, don't I?  I have a ticket home and 
enough for a hotel - you were very generous - so what am
I doing here?"  She sat down on the bed and bent to pull
off her socks.  "I certainly didn't come for the cuisine,
you keep a very bare cupboard, Miller," she chuckled,
"so why am I here?"  She dropped the socks on the floor.
     Miller didn't reply.  His eyes were locked on her
face as she slowly began unbuttoning her blouse.
     "Have you ever been cold, Miller?  Real cold?  So cold
that you can't even remember having been warm before?  It
is not pleasant.  It is even less pleasant to be cold and 
without hope at the same time.  You understand being without
hope, don't you?"
     Miller nodded, unable to bring himself to speak.
     "Yes, I see that in you, as it was in me.  I was 
cold, so terribly cold, and there was no hope at all.
I had given up.  There was nothing left for me so I had
just given up."  She paused, sorting out her thoughts, as
she let her blouse drop to the floor beside the socks and
unbuttoned her skirt.
     Miller could see her in the light of the moon, now
almost full, and he swallowed.  Her hair was pulled back
and clipped behind her head, revealing her features, the
face that he so wanted to touch, the slim neck that he
longed to stroke and the lovely shoulders which seemed to
ache for his caress.  He thought he understood what was 
happening but wasn't really sure.  It was simply too sudden, 
too much of a surprise, and he hadn't yet come to terms with 
it all.
     "I gave up, Miller," her voice caught, "and then there
was someone there promising to take me somewhere warm, warm
when I no longer knew what warm was; someone helping when
there was no reason to help; asking for nothing in return,
when he could have asked anything."  Her skirt joined the
blouse and the socks on the floor and her hands reached
back to unhook her bra.
     Miller wanted her to stop, to get dressed and leave;
wanted her to hurry and discard the rest of her clothes;
didn't know what he wanted.  There was something deep 
within begging to be heard, but he didn't listen, couldn't
listen.
     "I saw the way you looked at me, wanted me, yet had
the decency to make no demands.  Do you know how that feels?  
Have you any idea what is like to be cold and then to be 
offered the warmth within - offered, but with no pressure?  
And all that after he . . ."  Her voice broke again.  
     There was a tear in the corner of her eye, Miller
could see, just as there was one in his own.  He wondered
how it had come to be there even as it was joined by 
another.  The bra dropped from her fingers and she was 
there before him, beautiful, her nipples little buttons 
centred in their areolae becoming longer, harder, even as 
he watched.  He wanted desperately to move a hand, to stroke 
and caress, but he couldn't.  She hadn't yet finished and he 
knew he had to let her finish.
     "You brought me to the warmth within you, Miller, and 
I don't know how you managed it for your warmth, also, is 
trapped, surrounded by the cold."  She lifted slightly and 
her panties joined the rest of her clothes in disarray on 
the floor.
     The tears, Miller noted objectively, had left the
corner of his eye and were migrating down his cheek.  The
eyes of the woman in front of him were bright and warm.
He reached his hand up and she caught it in her own.  He
drew her to him even as she completed her disrobing by
tossing her barrette to the waiting pile, her hair 
cascading down and around his face as her lips found
his ear.
     "I pay my debts, Miller," she whispered, one hand
going to the hardness of him, "and that's why I'm here,
to break through the cold and lead you to the warmth
within."  She hissed as his finger found her centre, 
and then hummed out her pleasure.  "Yes, the warmth,
within," she giggled, "both metaphorically and literally."
She gasped into his ear, exciting him further, "And
I'm here for another reason, too."
     "What's that?" Miller asked, raising his lips off 
her nipple.  He had turned her over on her back and was
now half over her, enjoying her delights.
     "I want you - and after last night - badly!"  Janice
laughed throatily as Miller teased her nipples, "That was
very bad of you, stopping when you did."  She moved her
legs apart to make room for him as Miller slid on top of
her, kissing her full on the mouth.
     Their tongues dueled for long moments until Miller
broke the kiss, breathless.  He slid down slightly and
paid very close attention to her neck, coating it in 
kisses, stroking it gently, drawing out the erotic moans
from her throat.  Her moans excited him further and he
slipped even lower, his lips finding one hard nipple, 
his fingers the other.  Her hips began to undulate as her
level of pleasure rose and within himself Miller felt the 
joy beginning to rise from where it had lain, lost and 
forlorn, this long time past. 
     Such a fine and delicate body, he thought, as he 
inched his way still lower, running a string of kisses
down her breastbone and across her stomach.  What
urgency, he grinned, as her hips rocked to a beat of
their own.
     "Gods, Miller, don't tease me," Janice begged and
was rewarded as his tongue found her nether lips and
caressed them with long strokes.  "Yesss," she hissed
as he found her little nubbin and sucked it gently.
     She was ready, he knew, and her perfume was making
him giddy.  He began lapping with a will, trying hard 
not to let her bucking hips get away from him, lashing
her clit with soft and hard tongue.  Her legs were over
his shoulders and he brought his arms up around her hips
and locked wrists over her stomach, holding her steady
as he went to work.
     "Miller," Janice cried out and locked her thighs
about his head, "oh Miller!"
     Miller laughed his joy into her sex and began the
long slow strokes which would gently bring her back down
from the heights.  Slowly her legs relaxed and he released
his lock on her.  Her breathing slowed.
     "Miller.  I want you to come in me.  Now, please,
Miller, I want you in me now."
     Miller inched his way back up, stopping again at
the rest station of her breasts to gather energy before
coming again to her hungry lips.  His arm reached out and
pulled open his night table drawer, his hand pulled forth
one of the condoms he had despaired of ever using and in
a moment he had it on.
     "Hurry, Miller," Janice exhorted him.  Miller hurried.
     She was warm and wet and ready and Miller positioned
himself at her portal.  He began to make a slow entry when
she lunged up at the same time as her heels drove him into
her.  They cried out together.
     "You feel good in me," Janice cooed.
     "It feels good to be in you," he replied, as he began 
to stroke in and out, "so very good," and he was rewarded
with a smile.  "I'm not too heavy on you?" he asked,
although he had much of his weight on his elbows.
     "I like the weight.  A little faster, please."
     Miller complied, lowering himself a little so that her
hard nipples scratched his chest as he moved in and out of
her.  Her hands were in his hair, softly massaging, pulling
and twisting, running down to his neck and sliding back over
his face, tracing his brows, his cheekbones, his jaw.  She
pulled his face down to her own and kissed him, hard.  Her
arms went around his body and she held on tightly.
     "Now, Miller, now," she gasped.  "Ride me hard."
     Miller stopped.  "Janice?"  She opened her eyes, 
questioning.  "You are beautiful," he smiled, then began
to move once more, slowly building speed.  Her answering
smile, her bright eyes, seemed to lose focus as her
concentration went within, as the tension built within
her, looking for release.  Her breath came in short gasps.
     Miller found it extremely exciting and knew that he
couldn't last much longer.  The feel of her warmth 
surrounding him, her breasts squashed against him, her
heels urging him on to ever greater speed and, above all of
that, her gasps as he moved within her, within the warmth
of her, drove him over the edge.
     It was like nothing he had ever felt before and he
drove into her hard and again and again.  Then he slowed
and began a grinding action, pelvis to pelvis which 
caused her to explode, to vibrate against him.
     His last act, before he collapsed, was to turn them
both over, still joined, so that she lay on him as their
breathing slowly returned to normal.
     They made love twice more through the night, then
fell into a deep sleep.  In the morning he walked her
to the bus.  As she kissed him good-bye he knew that she
had been right.  Cold had surrounded him.  It did so no
longer.
     Her face as she looked up at him was a picture he 
would never forget.  Her look told him much he would never
be able to put into words.  They had made love, yes, yet 
they were not in love.  They had something both more and
less than that.  A gift had been given and and a gift had
been received in return and life was all the better for 
the exchange.
     On his return to his home he had found the keys
on the kitchen table, a note nearby saying:  Thank-you
for the warmth.

     "Would you care to order, Miller," Cheryl brought
him out of his reverie.
     Miller dazzled her with his smile.  "Yes, thank-you,
Cheryl, I would.  I'll have the chili."  
     Cheryl smiled back, her smile alive and full.  Dan
had been right.  The prize of her smile was well worth
the price.
     He folded Janice's letter which told that she was 
doing well and was enclosing a portion of the amount he 
had loaned her, dropped the keys and cheque back in the 
envelope and replaced it in his pocket.  It was good to 
know that she, too, was doing well, it was good to have
the gift she gave.
     "Yes, I think that chili is just the thing."
     "I don't know, Miller, it's hotter 'n Hell, today,"
she winked at him.  "Still on for tonight?"
      "Absolutely.  And you're probably right about the
chili - after all, it's a cold day in Hell."