MARGARET TURNED IN HER SLEEP, sharply, and her body convulsed as if she were in pain. She brought her hand up to her face to protect it. She made a small whimpering sound.
She was having another dream. Roofer was alive again; they were married; everything was like it had always been.
"Come here," he said, and she approached him slowly. She should have run. She always knew she should run, but she never could. People didn't understand that. Roofer was naked, and though he touched himself, plucking at that big soft thing, he couldn't get an erection, so she knew what would happen, but still she couldn't run. She didn't.
"Come here, I said," and he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him, loosening his grip a little so he could twist his fingers on her soft flesh and make it burn. He placed his other hand lightly on her breast and with his thumb and forefinger teased the small nipple until it grew erect. Then, his eyes on his hardening penis, he dug his thumbnail deep into the nipple, twisting it until she cried out. He slapped her and threw her on the bed and—thick and hard at last—plunged into her, driving, slashing, as if his penis were a knife and he were stabbing her. He kept on and on, a sweat broke out on him, sour, poisonous, and still he went on, punishing her, plunging in and in again, until at last she felt nothing and then he stopped, suspended, drew in a long shuddering breath, and as he came—his head thrown back, his chest convulsing—he whispered over and over again, "Roofie's a good boy; good boy, good good good good boy."
He collapsed against her and she woke.
