The Other Mike

III

The scream woke Sydney from her sleep with a start. Beside her was the Rorschach blot of merlot drool. From the bathroom she heard the trickle of water from the shower nozzle. Mike.

She jackknifed up from bed, expecting to see circumstantial traces of the night's events littering the room. There were no muddy leaves, no trails of blood and dirt ground into the carpet. Mike hadn't slung his fucking bone spurs up on the doorknob. Beside her,
in the pillow, was the familiar, domestic imprint left by
Mike's head . No sign of violence, just the steam lazily drifting out of the bathroom, the limp patter of weak water pressure.

"Finally wake up drunkie?" Mike called out to her.

"Yyyeah.  Hey hon, can you come in here so I can see you?" Part of Sydney's brain was still crouching by the thicket near the creek, and this was the part that expected to see, instead of Mike, the withered crone step out from the pillow of steam. She would be speaking to
Sydney with Mike's voice in her throat. When the familiar bearish shape stepped through the doorframe, massaging his scalp with a towel, Sydney deflated audibly.

"What's up babe? You ok?"

Sydney nodded mutely.

" I tried to be quiet, but I think I could've pushed you out to sea on a raft, and you wouldn't have woken up".

Sydney jumped from the bed, grabbed Mike's arms and, without a word, twisted them back and forth, looking for lacerations. His arms, save for the faint freckles and moles which dotted them, were unmarked. She was already having trouble pinning down specifics of the night before, but she was sure that at least a few of Jack's kicks would have landed. It was the same old Mike stomach, a hint of abdominal muscle peeking out from behind a layer of fat.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" Still holding his arms, Sydney looked up at him with the raw need of a trapped animal.

"Uh, I remember that you were drunk and tried to climb on top of me, but I told you I was too good looking to be your cheap whore. Then you
ran to the bathroom and threw up".

The tight fist of her suspicions began to unclench. She remembered the acrid, pungent taste of the pheasant. Had she been given tainted food? If that were the case, why had no one else gotten sick? At least she knew Mike wasn't sick. She would have to ask Jack and Greta, when she saw them, if they had had any unusually visceral dreams.

"I guess you're right. I just had the worst dream. I mean, your hands were tied, you were wearing an animal skull like a party hat."

"Whoa, that sounds kinky. Not saying I'm not into it, I've always been fairly catholic in my tastes."

"It was just....so real...I've never had a dream like that before". Even as she spoke, the ribbon of assuredness was sliding from her hands and being pulled into other, farther rooms.

"Maybe it was the food, I'll have to ask Greta and Jack how they're feeling?"

"Ask who and who what?"

"Greta and Jack, the couple from Boston. Man bun and ginger pixie cut."

Now it was Mike's turn to stare mutely.

"Hey babe, it's....uh.....just us here."

"Oh, hey, you don't really need to get me back for the deer thing. I'd really not like couple's counseling to turn into a prank war."

"I'll be the first one to take credit for messing with you, but look at me babe. Are you fucking with me now? It was just us last night. "

Sydney stared into his eyes. Blue eyes. Mike had green eyes, didn't he. This was not the kind of thing she wasn't sure of. Blue eyes, green eyes. Those blue eyes were starting to waver somewhere between fear and anger. Nothing usually visibly bothered Mike. She was leaning on her assertions with too much pressure. Much more, and they both would collapse.