“Okay, so you’ve told me about art school and your sojourns as first a groupie and then an escort; you’ve told me about the liaisons—the bad boys and married men and power brokers and political figures; all of whom shall remain nameless; but what you haven’t told me—what you haven’t even come close to telling me—is the one thing I actually want to know, which is a simple, clean, economically-unpacked: why?”
She looked at me pensively, thoughtfully, before shifting her focus to the sky and the Aurora Borealis-like lights, which had been omnipresent since the Flashback. “The short answer is, I don’t know—not really. I mean, I really don’t. I know that I’ve always sensed a ... a ...” I shifted my focus to the dock light—I’m not sure why, perhaps I’d heard a sound. “A kind of pulse; which run
