Moon Dance

45.



I flew tonight.



I was typing on my laptop, one of the few possessions, outside of clothing and makeup, that I had brought with me. The hotel provided wireless connections, which was one of the reasons I had picked it. That, and because it had nine floors. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I was planning on making my leap, and the taller the hotel the better.



You did!? came Fang's immediate response.



Yes!



You figured this out on your own?



Yes.



But how?



I told him the sequence of events leading up to my decision to leap from my balcony. Or, rather, my impulse to leap from the balcony.



I am sorry about your marriage, Moon Dance. Maybe someday you can marry me. I promise to be accepting.



I'm not in the mood for jokes, Fang.



No joke.



Then I'm not in the mood to be propositioned.



Sorry. He paused, then typed: What was it like, flying?



Heavenly. Rapturous. Nothing like it in the world. I will definitely be doing that again.



What exactly did you turn into?



Something scary. Something nightmarish.



But you were still you, right? You could think, feel?



Yes, I never left. It was still me, just in the skin of something horrific.



Describe it.



I did, as best as I could. I told Fang that there was really very little of me I could see, other than the image I had in my mind. The image was scary enough.



What am I? I asked him when I was through.



You are a vampire, Moon Dance.



But am I even one of God's creatures? Am I something evil? Am I even truly alive?



Do you feel alive?



Yes.



Do you feel evil?



I thought about that. I feel like such an aberration, a mistake. Something forgotten. Something to be ignored. Something to fear.



Moon Dance?



Yes?



We all feel that way. You are just different. He paused. Do you believe in a Creator?



I paused, then wrote: I don't know. I believe in something.



Well, do you think that Something has suddenly decided to ignore you because you were attacked and changed into something different against your own free will?



I don't know, Fang.



There was a long pause. I don't. I don't think a god of creation has suddenly decided to ignore you, Moon Dance. I think, in fact, you have been granted a rare opportunity to do things some people have never thought possible, to express yourself in ways that many people will never, ever experience. You could choose to see this as an opportunity or as a curse. Do you choose to see the good or the bad?



So there is good in me?



More good than most.



So I have not been forgotten?



Who could forget you, Moon Dance?



Thank you, Fang. Thank you for always being here for me.



Always. And Moon Dance?



Yes?



Take care of yourself. There are people out there who love you. A long pause. I waited. And I am one of them.



Thank you, Fang, that means a lot. Goodnight.



Goodnight, Moon Dance.



46.



On a Thursday night just a little past 9:30 p.m., Detective Sherbet picked me up outside the Embassy Suites. A light rain had been falling and I hadn't bothered with an umbrella.



"Trash night," he said when I slid in next to him. Sherbet was driving a big Ford truck with tinted windows. "Hey, you're all wet."



"I enjoy the rain."



"So enjoy the rain with an umbrella. You're getting my leather seats all wet."



"Get over it. It's just a truck."



"It's not just a truck. It's my baby."



"There's more to life than trucks."



"Someone in a bad mood?" he asked.



"Yes."



He grinned and pulled out into traffic. The truck had a throaty roar. The detective, I quickly discovered, drove like a mad man. He pulled into traffic with reckless abandon, confident that his truck could survive any impact. I found his driving exciting. Maybe I was a closet adrenalin junkie.



"So do you have termites or something?" he asked after a cacophony of horns had subsided behind us.



"Excuse me?"



"Is that why I'm picking you up at a hotel in Brea? Does your house have termites?"



"Oh," I said. "Sure."



"Speaking of Brea, did you hear about the flying creature last night?"



"No."



"Police call centers got swamped last night. About a hundred total. Apparently something dropped out of the sky and swooped down the middle of Downtown Brea."



"Maybe it was a bird," I said distractedly. I didn't feel like talking. I was missing my children, and could not fight the horrible feeling that they were forever lost to me.



"This was no bird." He chuckled and made a right onto State College Blvd. A minute later we were waiting at a stoplight to turn left onto Imperial. Through the side window I noticed a few teenage boys gawking at the truck.



"The boys love your truck," I said.



"They should. It's bitchen."



I laughed, despite myself.



Sherbet continued, "Witnesses say it was black and massive and flying almighty fast."



"What happened to it?"



"Made a right onto Brea Blvd and was gone."



"Did it at least use its turn signal?"



The light turned green. He gunned the truck as if he were in a drag race. He looked over at me and smiled. "You don't seem to believe any of this."



"No," I said. "Do you?"



"Hard to say. A hundred witnesses is a lot of witnesses."



"Mass hallucination?" I suggested.



"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe they really saw something."



Sherbet pulled behind a long line of cars waiting for the freeway on-ramp. I had the distinct�Dand exciting¨Dfeeling that Sherbet would have preferred to go over the cars.



"You hungry?" he asked suddenly.



"No."



"You sure? You look like you could eat."



"I'm sure."



He pulled out of the line of cars, hung a suicidal turn back onto Imperial Blvd, and headed into a nearby Wendy's drive-thru.



"That was frightening," I said.



"Then why are you smiling?" he asked.



"I guess I like frightening," I said.



He ordered his food and pulled up in line. He said, "The wife tonight made a German dish called machanka. She thinks I like it. I haven't had the heart to tell her that I quit liking it fifteen years ago."



"You must love her."



"With all my heart," he said.



"Lucky her," I said.



"Lucky me."



He got his food. Two bacon burgers, an order of fries, and a king-sized Coke.



"That'll kill you," I said.



"True," he said. "But on the flip side: no more machanka."



Shoving fries into his mouth, he recklessly made a left into traffic, into a break of traffic that was virtually non-existant. He looked at me and grinned around the fries.



I grinned, too.



Soon, we were heading south on the 57 freeway.