It wasn't, strictly speaking, supposed to be a date. Somehow, it ended up just the two of us though others in the office swore they'd come along.  I should have known better, should have read the signs when no one suggested a watering hole and the task of finding one fell to me. David, being new to the city, of course hadn't a clue about where to go.  I named my favourite bar even as I asked myself if I really wanted all my co-workers knowing where I relaxed with a drink or two.  Needless worry, as it turned out.  The winter night closed in, a few flurries began to fall and merry-makers from Jersey, Brooklyn and Queens scurried home as quickly as the bridges and tunnels would take them.  Leaving David and me looking at each other and he gamely suggesting that because the others were such wimps, we didn't have to be too.  How could I refuse?  I'm no good at this, though.  Even as I laughed and agreed with him, a bit of me cringed and imagined an evening stretching before me of conversation I wasn't sure I wanted to have, daunted by the effort required for interaction with someone I barely knew.

I've lived here long enough to know that when the weather turns the least bit inhospitable, the availability of cabs becomes something on a par with that of gold dust.  Being the good aspiring yuppie that he was, it did not surprise me that David had a small expensive apartment on the upper Eastside.  He was familiar with the horror that was the Lexington Avenue subway line.  Fortunately, we had to bear the crush only to Astor Place.  From there, it was a short jaunt east to my favourite, no-name bar on First Avenue.   I kept up a quick pace which had a little to do with January's bitter cold and a little to do with acclimating my companion to the city's pace of life. We were moving at such a clip that David nearly fell over when I stopped suddenly and put my shoulder against the bar's solid door.

"If you blink, you've missed the place," he muttered.

"Exactly why I like it," I grinned.

Vodka, the best in the house, was being measured out as I stepped up to the bar.  Peter, the bartender, turned a questioning look in David's direction and to my amazement David ordered the same.  Vodka in hand, we made our way towards the only window, covered with a venetian blind, that look out upon the diminishing traffic of First Avenue.

I could sit for hours in this spot, watching lower Manhattan go about its business.  Peering through the open slats of the lowered blinds, it was easy to imagine that the trick of invisibility was mine.  It was always a little disconcerting when someone, not so distracted by his or her own preoccupation, looked up to stare frankly back at me.  People mostly ignored the bar, however.  The lighting was always dim, the music never too loud and even when the place was packed to capacity, stepping across the threshold was like stepping into another world.  We were sealed off from the life of the city on the other side of that door.

"So this is your favourite bar," he remarked.

For lack of anything else to say, I suspected; but I smiled and nodded.

"Can't say much for the neighbourhood. Doesn't look particularly safe around here."

I shrugged.  "It's okay.  I've never felt threatened walking around this part of town."

I decided not to add that my apartment was another block east of here along Avenue A.

"Bit grungy too.  But I can see why you like the bar.  Kinda Art Deco..."

Grungy was probably a fair description of the neighbourhood but it rankled coming from this guy from the sterile Upper Eastside.  At least down here, the grunge had character.

"Yeah.  I think it's the lighting that gives the Art Deco feel to the place," I replied, deciding discussion about the bar's decor was the safer of the two topics.  "Cheers."

Vodka was the only way to deal with the situation.

Outside, the flurries fell fast and furious. Curious, I could remember no forecast that mentioned snow.  Of course, accumulation was the rule rather than the exception this time of year but the meteorologists were usually very efficient in warning the Metropolitan area of impending blizzards.  I thought perhaps they might have gotten the forecast wrong this evening.

"So how long have you been in New York?"  David asked.

"Seems like forever," I laughed. "Approaching ten years now. Changed a lot since I've been here. I watched the Lower Eastside become the East Village and watched all those warehouses on West Broadway become *the* place to live, to shop, to eat...."

"Amazing."

"Yeah, well, when I moved here, you couldn't give those places away....  Now look at them!"

He gave a peculiar shrug of his shoulders which I took as a sign of amusement.  His gaze went to the window and for a moment, I wondered if he felt it too, that feeling of being the voyeur.

"Takes some getting used to I think," he suddenly said and for some reason I was not prepared for this observation.  "Living and working in New York, I mean," he needlessly added.  "It can be a little overwhelming.  Fantastic!  But a little too much."

"Takes a year," I said with confidence.  "After you've been here a year, you won't remember living anywhere else.  Or if you do, you'll wonder how you ever lived there."

To my relief, he laughed and I smugly congratulated myself on narrowly avoiding a path that seemed a bit too intimate for the moment.

"Don't worry about the city.  Worry about how you're going to deal with our disorganised office!"  I joked. "Think you'll like working with this bunch?"

He was unlikely to tell me what he truly thought so half of my attention wandered once again to the scene outside. Those lazy, fat flakes were gone. Tiny mites fell now, hitting the pavement and looking slick and treacherous as they multiplied.  I could imagine already how the city sounded out there, muffled and far away, the snowfall acting like a thick curtain.

"Brian, though ... he couldn't run a bath," David was saying.

He grinned at my shocked surprise.  It was my opinion of our incompetent project leader too, shared only with my most trusted workmates.  I suddenly had admiration for David, this New England small town guy who after only a couple of weeks seemed to have figured out the lay of the office land pretty accurately and didn't seem hesitant about letting me know.  He scooped up our empty shot glasses and giving me a conspiratorial smile, slipped off towards the bar.

Definitely a blizzard now, I thought as I stared out the window.  Very little moved on First Avenue and the traffic had slowed, a rare and noteworthy thing in the city.  The few hardy souls who passed by huddled under barely adequate umbrellas or looked as if they were trying to disappear into the collar of their coats.  The occasional angry swirl of the snow told me that a winter wind gusted out there.  Postponing the journey home in favour of another drink or two didn't seem such a bad idea.

I don't know what made me look up. There was no warning from the street that I could see.  The door opened and she stepped into the place as if she had stepped out of nowhere. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the blast of winter that preceded her was frigid even for the worst January. A cold took hold of me that I doubted high summer's heat could thaw.   

A collective breath was drawn and held and time seemed poised on a precipice.  The seconds it took for her to enter and allow the door to swing shut behind her were an eternity.   She wore a long, black leather coat and a big floppy hat that effectively hid her face. The odd thing was --- and I wondered if anyone else noticed --- that her hat and coat were completely dry, not even a smattering of quickly drying snowflakes could be seen.

The bartender had already made his way to her and as she softly ordered a drink, I watched her remove the hat and shake down hair as dark as midnight.  Her eyes were black as well and the contrast of her clothing, the colour of her hair, her eyes to that skin of hers, luminescent like snow and ice, took my breath.   No one, male or female, was immune to whatever spell it was she wove.  The anticipation, the certainty that something *was* going to happen was tangible in the room.  Looking neither right nor left she sipped her drink and I shrank further in the shadows, horribly, alarmingly fascinated yet reluctant to have this ice queen's gaze meet mine.

Some kind of normalcy was returning to the place as people realised that they had been momentarily staring. Inexcusable in cool Manhattan, no matter how compelling the subject.  I took refuge in the weather, excited, alarmed, dismayed and delighted by the force of the snowstorm.  Visibility was low, the streetlights blobs of illuminated grey in the ghostly white. Home beckoned but not before I'd had my vodka. 

I looked up and my heart jumped painfully when I saw what was keeping David.  I thought maybe he was rooted to the spot.  I watched her smile and say something too softly for me to catch but David coloured --- I could see that even in the dim lighting --- and chuckled as he replied.  No, no, I wanted to tell him.  Don't go there at all!  But he was new to the city, hadn't developed that sixth sense that kicks in, screaming warnings when something doesn't quite add up.  Like this woman.

On the other side of her, a young man tried desperately not to be interested in her exchange with David but there was something about his posture that told me he was eavesdropping; the way he twirled his glass on the bar; the covert glances he gave them both.  I saw David give her a quick smile and turn towards me. As I expected, the young man seized the moment.

"Is she a regular?" he asked me, setting my vodka before me.

I shook my head.  "Never saw her before tonight."

"I guess she's not the sort you'd forget after seeing once."  He glanced in her direction, his blue eyes shone with a light easily interpreted. His face changed only the slightest bit when he saw what had developed once he'd left the bar.

I could see that he did not comprehend his luck.  We half-heartedly picked up our conversation about the office but both of us were held captive by that presence at the bar.  Even as she flirted with the young man beside her, I saw a part of her held in check watching, waiting like some devouring insect.  Couldn't that stupid boy see it?  David did not see it either.  I watched him nervously smooth down his closely cut ash-blond hair as his eyes flick back to her every now and again.

Nature called and I was glad to have a temporary escape from whatever was unfolding this strange evening.  The toilets in this bar were unisex affairs and located at the rear.  I passed the unlikely couple on my way to them and caught snippets of their flirting as I did.

"Different people have called me different names," I heard her respond to his question for a name. "But you can call me Lila."

He repeated the name, offered his and I somehow knew Lila forgot as soon as he gave it.  Though there was nothing to suggest that she even noticed me passing by, I couldn't shake the feeling that revealing her name was as much for my benefit as the boy's.  However, I kept my eyes on my destination, not daring to acknowledge her but suddenly felt her gaze like ice daggers in my back.  I reached the dubious safety of the tiny restroom, irrationally glad for the flimsy door between me and the source of my fear.

It was only a moment's respite.  Opening the door, I found her alone in the narrow passage, innocently waiting, it seemed, for her turn.  I knew better.  She did not give way as I tried to sidle past, awed and repelled by that translucent flesh.  Something told me it was hard as marble and the living warmth that can usually be felt from being so close to another was simply not there.  No human smell either and I wondered if I did find some impossible courage and placed my hand upon her chest would I feel a pair of working lungs?  I doubted it.  Against every instinct my eyes found hers, too dark upon her face.

She flashed teeth like polished bone and said, "You can't have him and you certainly can't save him."

I blinked.  Had I heard the words or had they just suddenly formed in my head, like something I have known all my life?  There was no reply I could make and Lila laughed, low in her belly, as she allowed me to pass.

I tried to still my hammering heart, to appear as nonchalant as I could.

"Think we should be going," I said as I came up to David's side.

"Why the rush?  The evening's just getting started."  He tilted his chin towards the bar.  "My competition's gone too."

The grin he tried to share with me faltered a little at my lack of response.

"Com'on, Cass.  Office relationships are a bad idea, don't you think?"

"Sure," I replied and wondered why I was so content to let him misconstrue the situation.  I felt outside myself, a fly sitting on one of these dimly lit walls waiting for whatever would happen next.  Perhaps I'd accepted that I couldn't stop this, that David didn't want my advice.

I looked at him.

He gazed out over the small crowd, the few who had braved the snow, and I knew he watched for her return.  He was like something wound to breaking point, ready to explode at the slightest touch.  I was nearly immobilised with terror and mixed with my fear was the certainty that she was waiting; that she hovered, out of sight for the moment and fully aware of the futility of my warnings to David. 

"Look David, this is just my two cents but I think the woman's dangerous.  I'd be careful if I were you."

For an instant, I saw the flippant remark he wanted to make.  I don't know why he didn't.  Still, he didn't meet my eyes as he pondered what response would be acceptable.

"Hey.  This is your town.  I'll trust your instincts.  But what could it hurt to flirt a little?"

I tried very hard not to roll my eyes, not to sigh.  Not to clock him one with all my might.

"Just don't do anything stupid," I said it as forcefully as I knew how as I gathered my belongings.  A now familiar head of thick black hair was coming our way, not pausing at her old spot and I barely had time to squeeze David's arm and make my escape before she descended upon him.   The second before I made it out the door, I could see him, athlete's body bent towards her, eagerly entering her space with a smile that signalled nothing but trouble to me as she claimed my recently vacated seat. The door softly thudded behind me and I stepped from one nightmare into another.

The snow fell fast and furious and the silence in the city chilled my bones.  No wind now to drive the angry mites but they were hard and frozen, pinging as they struck windows, streetlights and icy branches.  I had visions of losing my way amongst streets I'd travelled for nearly ten years, wrapped in snow like yard upon yard of muslin. For one horrible moment, it seemed easier to succumb than to struggle to find that one familiar door in this white night.  On I went, one foot before the other, until I was rewarded by a familiar shape forming through the snow.

The intensity of the over-heated foyer of my apartment building greeted me as I fell through the door and as it loudly clicked shut behind me, the relief made my knees weak.  I sat on the steps leading up to my apartment and laughed, but only softly.  If there were demons in that storm on the other side of that front door, I didn't want to give them any reason to notice me.

I felt only marginally safer inside my apartment.  Bolted doors and windows would give no protection against what I met this evening.  I struggled to let familiar surroundings calm my racing heart and as I pulled the curtains against the unearthly blizzard, I murmured encouraging, soothing nonsense to myself.  Everything was going to be fine.

I'd think about David tomorrow.
****

My bedroom was pitch black and I knew right away that something was not right.  Usually, light from the street below leaked in, an urban twilight in place of the true darkness of night, and always there was the hum of the city, dozing if not sleeping.  Now, the silence of the city only emphasised the sound of my jumping heart.  It was an eerie stillness, not the usual hush that fell over Manhattan when a blizzard hit.  I had come to expect and enjoy that sort of stillness which meant men and women waited, tucked up somewhere cosy, enjoying nature's whim or not, prepared to crawl out of their warm borrows when the worst had passed.  But the silence around me now was absolute and seemed to settle around my bones.  I strained to catch the slightest sound of traffic; the one cabby bold enough to brave the weather; garbage trucks masquerading as snowploughs and gritters roaring in low gear down deserted streets and avenues, their yellow caution lights whirling.  There was no evidence of any of this and as the darkness pressed closer around me, I wondered if the snow had stopped.  There was not even the sound of flakes striking the window. 

It should have been a simple matter to climb out of my bed, cross my small bedroom and draw back my curtains.   But the window seemed to be on the other side of the world.  I don't know how I managed it, where the will came from.  But the covers were thrown back, my legs swung out of bed. There was a sudden sensation of watching myself from a great distance, my long, slow movements to the window like a play upon a far away stage.   Dread, curiosity, the certainty that a blackness more final than infinitely deep space would greet me when I pulled aside my curtains, all closed over me as my hand reached for the heavy fabric.  I gathered it in a death grip, slowly pulling the curtain back, my lungs refusing to work, the sound of my panic pounding in my ears.

Before I could see whatever there was to see, I was falling like a meteor with a speed that meant death, eyes squeezed shut, wanting to grab something but unable to move arms or legs. I hit my bed with a force that slammed my heart against my ribs and struggled against a weight like a boulder that held me immobile against the mattress.

A whisper; was it my name?  Against my ear, a breath.  A cool touch on my skin, everywhere and nowhere at once.  When my ear was nuzzled, when warm, caressing wetness travelled down my neck and lingered for a while between my breasts, my panic crumbled.  In its place grew anticipation of the next touch, the next toe-curling wave of desire and release. Not wondering how or why, I surrendered, terrified of my need, like a little death, for more.  This was the power of some god or demon, a creature some part of me knew was spun from events of the peculiar evening just passed.  Was it Lila, come for me after a dalliance with David?  Even in dream, the possibility was too appalling. 

But you know who I am, the quiet assertion seemed to fill my bedroom.

Of course I did.  I left you when I shouldn't have, when I knew you were not up to the task of fending off such danger, and now you haunt my dreams.  I suddenly knew I had to wake up.  But something took hold of my heart, even as it twined around my unprotesting body, and I fell further into the sensual darkness.

Stormy winter night, dark and foreboding, gave way to morning with light that promised spring and warmth.  A promise destined to be broken, I knew, since it was the height of winter.  My eyes seemed glued shut:  my brain could not understand the light that shone behind my closed lids.  The bedroom seemed too cold.  I struggled to sit up and finally opened my eyes.

My heavy curtains, drawn last night against that unnatural storm, were drawn back and the window was wide open.  It was a brilliant winter day outside, completely clear and cold and immediately, the sounds of the city digging out from under last night's blizzard reached me.  With the passing of that storm from hell went also the last cobwebs of dream and illusion.  In a second I was at the window, checked out the scene below before slamming it shut against the arctic conditions outside.   The intensity of my relief shocked me and in the safety of daylight, I laughed a little at my fears of last night.

I didn't see it until I was making my bed. I reached to fluff my pillows and there, stark against the white cotton, was a long strand of midnight black hair.
****

He didn't seem the sort of guy to just disappear.  That was the general consensus around the office.  One or two of the busier bodies turned to me wanting to know every detail of our evening together.  You were probably the last one with him, they said to me.  Was he depressed?

Far from it, was all I'd offer.  He was in great spirits when I left him.

Life goes on in the big city and particularly on Wall Street.  There's always that big deal to be made that requires, in every sense of the cliché, being in the right place at the right time.  David had his flash in the pan and then ceased to be newsworthy.

Had she devoured him, sucked the energy from him even as he cried out for more, before coming to my bed?  But it had been David.  It had been a dream.  And the black hair --- could have come from anywhere, I reasoned with myself.  Could have attached itself to any piece of clothing that was then tossed carelessly upon the bed.  Logic and reason were my only weapons against dark and ancient truths. Perhaps I could eventually convince myself to accept so mundane an explanation.  To make it easier, I avoided my favourite bar and so, no challenge was presented to the tidy, material world I knew as mine.  Alone in my bed, though, through the long winter nights, as sleep crept over me, so did a longing for that dream's return. Anticipation and horror chased each other, devouring one another until I couldn't tell where one feeling ended and the other began.  There was only the ache for the pleasure that grew to become as much a part of me as every breath I took.

The winter became an early spring that burst into a typically hot and humid Manhattan summer that held tenaciously on until October.  It was a Saturday when the unseasonable warmth vanished, as if a door had opened and deep winter had arrived in an instant.  I found myself on First Avenue, shivering in a sudden icy wind.  The sky was heavy with black, threatening clouds and, as ridiculous as it seemed, I wondered whether the city could expect the first considerable snowfall of the year so early.  The flakes began to fall just as I found myself before the door of my neighbourhood bar.  Unease passed through me but I reasoned with myself that I had been avoiding a favourite haunt too long now.

The bar never changes.  Same lighting, Peter a fixture behind the bar; venetian blinds at my favourite spot lowered, but opened.  As if no time had passed at all, vodka was put before me as I reached him. But the window seat was not empty. A premature night had fallen outside as if the last bit of the wan sunlight had been swallowed by some avian beast and the silence of heavy, unrelenting snow seem to settle in the near empty room.  Barely discernible in the bar's sudden gloom, as if he had not moved since that snowy night nearly a year ago, was David, pale and ghostly, his flashing eyes upon me like a predator sighting prey.
 

Like what you've read? Have suggestions or constructive criticism? Email me! tlyr (at) tlyr.co.uk