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I've seen him for years - a figure that moves in and out of my consciousness, in and out of my sleep. He steals in quietly, this specter of the night. Hovering in the corner of my room, slipping around the foot of my bed. He is with me at all times, of that I feel certain, a strange manifestation of my wild thoughts. He is in my dreams as I writhe and wrangle in my blankets, only to awaken to find my bed silent and smooth.

The last time I saw him was my senior year in college. He'd been growing fainter as I aged so I figured he must have been a part of my youth, a distraction until my sexual fantasies could become reality. Then last fall, he came back.

It was a wild autumn night. Leaves were blowing from trees, whirlwinds of dirt raced down the sidewalks. The wind whistled through alleys. I lay in front of my fireplace, watching the dying embers that barely shed enough light for me to finish my diary entry.

And then suddenly I heard a crash, the sound of breaking glass, pieces sliding across the floor in my kitchen. I threw off my blanket and raced through the downstairs, my slippers flopping at my heels. The pink Depression glass bowl my mother had given me was scattered everywhere, refracting a rose hue through the room.

It was an extraordinarily cold night, and I pulled my bathrobe tightly ...

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