The following fictional vignette was written by a young woman in New York City. It is to be one of eight short stories which will appear in a forthcoming book from Pan-Graphic Press, "Harry's Fare and Other Stories," mentioned on page 28 of this issue of the REVIEW.

DELUSION

By "HEATHER"

Heat slithered from the limp trees, bounced on the soft asphalt street and rose, making the brick buildings across the street wobble as it went. The sunlight splashed through the open window and, outside, the rotten sill sweated shiny black insects that scuttled along the crevices of the wood and disappeared over the edge. The flowered linoleum absorbed the yellowness of the light, etching the delicate shadows into its pattern.

Stephi's black hair lay limply on her bare shoulders as she sat by the window, chin on her folded arms. Her unpowdered nose glistened, and she stared at the tiny hairs on the back of her arms, amused by the fact that the heat made them stand erect. Her skin smelled sweet, and the warm scent seemed to encase her, creating a close impenetrable sphere. Her body had an awareness of its own. Beads of perspiration slid like fingers down her back; her skirt caressed her bare knees, and her sandal thongs sensuously grasped her ankles.

About her, from the second floor apartment, she could hear David's lazy footsteps. She could picture herself at his window now, silently sharing the moody afternoon with him. His footsteps approached the window and stood behind her, the rough cloth of his levis touching her back. His long fingers fondled her hair and slid gently along her shoulders; his lips were cool

on the back of her neck, emphasizing the wetness of her skin. But the footsteps were upstairs and she blushed at the empty excitement her dreaming had caused. So many times in the last two months she had wanted to touch him, to let her finger tips explore his sharp features and run over his long, slender torso, like a worshiper in adoration of a golden idol. But when she was upstairs with him they just talked. She could only string her mind to his with words and let his strong, blue eyes hold her.

Above her a door slammed and the stairs creaked under David's feet. The steps continued past her door and Stephi watched the street. He passed directly under her window; his brown hair was rumpled and his wave fell girlishly over his forehead. He wore tight levis and no shirt, the muscles of his tan back flexing smoothly as he walked across the street.

Like a hungry mouth, the dark doorway of the bar engulfed him. Within a few minutes it spewed him and a short, blond boy into the street. The blond was thin and small, almost delicate; he gazed at David as he talked. He spoke in spasms, flipping the words out with his tongue. As they crossed the street, David took the blond's hand, pulling him closer so their bodies touched, and smiled at him out of the corner of his eye. Their footsteps were loud on the stairs and Stephi could feel their impact as if they tread on her. Her eyes were transfixed on the naked street, as the door opened and shut, and the footsteps disappeared into the bedroom.

It was hot; the air was heavy and it pressed down on the world, making it writhe. The afternoon quiet bore into Stephi's ears and the stench of her own sweat turned her stomach. Her clothes clung to her opressively and itchy whisps of hair stuck to her neck. The room was dim except for the spot of sunlight which burned angrily into the loud flowers of the linoleum. She closed the window and pulled the shade down. Small needles of light through the cracks in the green shade pierced the darkness. The room was tired and it seemed to be pulling her into its exhaustion. Slowly she leaned back into the chair, surrendering her mind to the darkness and letting her eyes relax on the blank expanse of the ceiling.

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