THE FIRST TIME she dreamed of him she woke up beside her husband screaming.

In their bedroom she stared down onto the sheet, mouth open. Her husband put his hand on her back.

“Nightmare. Don’t worry.” “Yes.” “Shall I get you some water?” “Yes.” She wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t lie back into that zone they had been in.

The dream had taken place in this room—his hand on her neck (she touched it now), his anger towards her that she had sensed the first few times she had met him. No, not anger, a lack of interest, irritation at a married woman being among them.

They had been bent over like animals, and he had yoked her neck back so she had been unable to breathe within her arousal.

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