Mystery Girl

Mystery Girl
Written by ticklishscribe
c.


I was leaving the Orpheum Theatre, after listening to the Kingston Trio, give their usual handcrafted concert performance. I had spent the evening singing along to all the old classics, and eclectically reflecting back to my youth.

On my way home I thought a quick peek at the "Off the wall" activity on Granville St., would be an interesting conclusion to my evening out. As I rounded the corner, the Trio's songs which were playing in my head began to disappear, and a somewhat mellow jazz saxophone solo began to take their place. Being interested in the musical medium I looked around for the busker behind it, but couldn't see anyone. It had reached its peak as I passed Granville Mall Books, and I thought I'd stop in to see if they had the latest computer paper. Maybe with the help of this I could now make some sense out of this paperweight I'd bought a couple of months ago.

The clerk upon my request motioned me to the back and up the stairs. There I found what I was looking for; the local rag for user friendly people. While I was there I figured a peek at the other computer books was a good idea. Perhaps there might be one called "Understanding Your Paperweight." Like I say, I hadn't figured the damned thing out in two months, so I certainly needed help. The thing had been bought to make my life easier, but was about as useless as TV without cable.

The saxophone solo that had eased its way into my conscience was now rapidly disappearing, being replaced by a God awful noise which was coming through the wall from some nightclub next door. Someone was either torturing a cat, or performing something today's delinquent youth called funk rock, and very badly at that, as if you could perform it otherwise.

As I made my way back down the stairs the music seemed to get louder. It was almost like I was backstage, with the exception of the wall, and thank God for it, separating me from the poorest definitions of music.

"That's loud isn't it. Some funk band or something."

I was quite willing to believe in the "Or something." The voice jolted me from the psychotic daze that the musical bombardment had thrown me in. This vocal refreshment belonged to a young girl. She was kind of cute too, but slightly overweight. By her sweat shirt, jeans and runners, I got the feeling that she was easy-going and laid-back.

She pushed her hair back behind her, revealing amber eyes and a questionable smile, and closed the book she was reading. She was beginning to interest me.

I was a Writer, and as such I took an interest in people. You had to in my game, or you wound up with flat words and dead paper. As I said, the girl was beginning to interest me. She had character possibilities.
"Comes through the wall all the time does it?" I asked.
"It's a little noisy." It was as though she hadn't heard what I'd said, and she had a slight grasp of the obvious, but I'd overlook it.

"Tell me who this looks like." She began to flip the pages of the book open, and I could see it was a collection of cartoons. She stopped at one depicting a baseball player hitting a home run, and knocking off the umpire"s head at the same time. "Doesn't he look like Thomas Magnum, Magnum PI." Pointing to the baseball player, she smiled and laughed as she said it.

Apparently she had a thing for re-runs; at least those of the suntanned Sam Spade variety. Remarking that there was some resemblance, I responded to her question.

"Here, look at this one."

As I sat down beside her, I took a quick peek around the room. I don't know why really, maybe just to see if I might be getting myself into some sort of trouble or situation. My brief inquiry showed me were only two other people in the store: the clerk and some guy.

"What's the name of this book?" I asked, after a few more of the eloquent cartoons had passed my view, and I use the term eloquent loosely. As it turned out, the focus of the book was on unpleasant ways to die. In fact the book was entitled, "101 Unpleasant Ways to Die."

The next little while was like a tennis game; batting jokes back and forth to each other, as we intensely leafed through the cartoons. This girl had a quirky sense of humor. How did I know that? It was a mirror image of mine, and if anybody's had the moniker of quirky hung on them, it's me.

It was about this time that I felt I should introduce myself. The last thing I wanted was to be just some ship passing in the night. We exchanged first name pleasantries, although something inside of me wouldn't have minded if she'd given her last name too. But all I got was "Diane."

We got briefly on the subject of other cartoon books of this nature, and I told her about a book I'd picked up at a sale for fifty cents. I collect Teddy Bears, and I found this unassuming little publication full of suggestive cartoons, using Teddy Bears as a focus. Seeing how she was into books of this slightly warped genre, I suggested that she might want to take a look at this one.

Then it was back to the tennis game with the book, and before you know it we'd reached the last cartoon. It was just as well, as I think we were running out of jokes. I stood up, and not knowing what to say, "It was nice meeting you," seemed to come in handy. It was then that I noticed some guy approaching her from behind. He stood behind her and began lightly massaging the back of her shoulders. This told me that he knew her and wanted something; and it certainly wasn't a midnight snack of a coffee and Danish. I assumed he was her boyfriend.


I left the store, giving a courteous good-bye to the clerk on my way out, and the through the wall symphony a silent heave Ho. Once on the street, the saxophone solo began to make it appearance again. Where in the heck was that busker, and playing the same tune no less. As I crossed Granville St. mid-stream, the thought of her being such a sweet girl wouldn't leave my mind. She was a babe all right, but certainly not a babe in the woods. By the way she talked and the way she interpreted the cartoons. I somehow got the feeling that she'd cornered the market on life.

I said I'd wanted to see some nightlife, and Granville Mall was showing off the best of its quirks and quarks. If you had dreams about some of these people, you'd have felt as though you were in the twilight zone. Some of Vancouver's shall we say, dealing for medicinal purposes went on in this end of town, and if you looked very carefully you could see the various clandestine transactions taking place. I never took any of the stuff myself, but you don't have to be a cop to know what's going on. Eech! What kind of life these people must lead, when they make that stuff a three meal a day diet.

The mall also had its share of shops catering to those interested in physically intimate activities; and the kinkier the better for some people. I didn't partake of this either, but again it was awfully hard not to notice. I mean, how do you not notice some bare, blonde babe's full length portrait, or some brunette and some guy in a position that looked physically impossible, and painfully obvious. At least not to them anyway. God! It hurt just looking at it.

Turning onto Robson St. I saw ahead of me what appeared to be three walking nightmares. You called these guys "Skinheads," and by their shaved heads, you could certainly say they were well coiffed. What also seem to unnerve me was the leather, chains and excessive Nazi regalia. You could have also called these guys "Neo Nazis," and battle worn at that. One of them was walking an overgrown Rottweiler, and by the look on the pooch's face, he looked as though he were sizing me up as a midnight snack. The dog looked trained to kill, and on his own command no less. Having no such desire to become a "Milkbone," I gave the three of them and their four-legged chainsaw a wide berth.

I couldn't decide from which corner to grab the bus; by now you must come to the conclusion that I didn't have wheels. I'm a writer remember, and to a degree a starving one at that. Having wheels was a luxury I couldn't afford. For the most part I was unemployed, and it was all I could do just to pay for my concert ticket. In any case, I was going to leave Vancouver's flotsam and jetsam behind. It was time to call it a night.

My thoughts had eased their way back to the concert, when who should happen to walk across the street, but Diane. Immediately my thoughts changed direction and ground to a complete halt, and as she waved to me, everything started to go into reverse. Before I knew it, or did know it, I had called her name.

"Heading off are you?" she asked.

Was she fishing for my destination? I pulled out a notebook and pen, telling her I still couldn't remember the title or publisher of the book I'd mentioned, but if she gave me a call at home, I would be able to supply her with the information. That is if she was interested. To my surprise she gladly accepted my number, but the look on her boyfriend's face did not match the tone of her voice. Diane looked at the number as if trying to mentally remember it, then folded the piece of paper, and put it in to the pocket of her Jacket. As she did this, she thanked me very much for my kindness, and complimented me on having an off the wall sense of humor and being a fun person.

How did she know I was a fun person? We had only known each other for about fifteen minutes, and certainly a few off the wall jokes couldn't be the mark of being a fun person. But I thanked her for the compliment, and remarked that she didn't have too bad a sense of humor either.

I could see that her boyfriend didn't like this generous trade off of favorable opinions, and wouldn't have minded seeing my phone number taking a walk to any place but her pocket. And that did not match the expression on her face, which appeared to me to be sending some kind of message, although for the life of me, I just couldn't figure out what it was.

We started in with the jokes again, and after the forth one I called a halt, saying that knowing us we'd be here all night if we continued.

As they walked down the Robsonstrasse, part of me wanted to follow, if not for the sake of anything else, but just for curiosity. However this ship had another port of call to make. They headed off to their West End rendezvous, and I boarded my bus.

On my way home my thoughts were of two things; the concert which I enjoyed, and Diane: mystery girl. Trying to take my mind off her, I began to hum Kingston Trio songs to myself. But that didn't work. I was a trio member on stage, and she was in the audience. She was the audience.

Now I wasn't in love with Diane if that's what you're thinking, I just couldn't get her out of my mind. Even trying to read my computer paper didn't work, as her face appeared in all the monitor screens. I kept putting the paper down then picking it up again, but there she was in the monitors.

I also couldn't help wondering what I would have seen if I had followed them down the Robsonstrasse. Even if only to find out just exactly what was on his mind. I was kind of curious about that you know, and having my own ideas just didn't seem to be enough.

It didn't matter if I was at work, at home or wherever, my mind was on Diane. Her face appeared on my computer monitor every time I turned it on, and even sometimes when it wasn't on. Her face had even appeared on some of my Bears. But it was a fuzzy image never-the-less, as I just couldn't remember what she looked like. All I got was a fuzzy blur of an image; nothing concrete.

The Kingston Trio' concert I could remember. Travelling home I could remember. The bookstore I could remember. I could even remember the cartoon Diane made reference to, but like I say, she was a fuzzy blur. Why I couldn't remember her was a mystery to me.

My living space come office space was a mess: Dust had introduced itself everywhere, and a ring of inaccurate shots of crumpled-up paper encircled the wastebasket. You could tell I'd make a lousy basketball player. House cleaning was something I was in no mood for, but with over 104 furry roommates giving me silent looks of displeasure, I was not about to argue the matter.

With an array of dirty clothes having just been disposed of in a laundry basket, my attention turned to a scattered collection of books that occupied various parts of the floor. One book seemed to jump right off the carpet. Again my heart, body and soul seemed to grind to an immediate halt. The book was "Teddy," and my thoughts reversed to the night of music and mystery. I was suddenly asking the question as to whether she'd call or not.

And why couldn't I remember a book with such a ridiculously simple title!

I started to shelve the book but began leafing through it, batting jokes back and forth to myself; knowing what she'd say. I guess having a sense of humor like hers, gave me the ability to almost anticipate her thoughts. Luckily for me there were no baseball playing bears in here, or my head would have come off, let alone the umpire's. Like I say, I could even remember the cartoon, but again Diane was a fuzzy blur.

It was late in the afternoon, and being deeply involved with a story on the word processor, I was jolted by the ringing of the phone. The caller asked for me, and I somehow felt the voice was familiar. When I said speaking, she introduced herself, and the name Diane shot through my conscience like a runaway train. It took me a bit to get my bearings, and by that time she'd refreshed my memory as to how we had met. I told her that I had been thinking about her only that morning, while leafing through the book on teddy bears I'd told her about. If she wanted the title, publisher, etc, I could now give her that information.

With a lively tone in her voice she accepted, but suggested that since meeting me, she had become very curious about my collection of bears, and was wondering if by chance she could come over to see them.

She wants to come here! My heart pounded like the kettle drum opening of Sammy Davis Jr's version of the song "That Old Black Magic". Calming myself, I replied that I'd be delighted to show her the collection when-ever she wanted to see it. We agreed on a date and time, and I somehow felt that my mystery girl would no longer be a mystery to me. Here was a very comfortable one on one setting that could be very conducive to my environment, and from the sound of her voice, I think she was thinking the same thing, only about her.

If I wasn't in the mood to clean, I certainly had no choice now. With someone coming over, I wanted the place to be in some sort of livable if not spotless condition. The place wasn't a pig sty, but with Diane coming over in two days, I did not want a single piece of dust left untouched. And since she was coming to see the bears, I'd better dust them twice.

My apprehension was in full heat as the day arrived, and I just couldn't help pace back and forth to the front window to see if she was here yet. When she did arrive, it overflowed like lava from a volcano, and I could barely contain myself not to throw open the door.

It was by some coincidence that she was wearing exactly the same clothing as when we'd met in the bookstore. I don't know how I knew that, the fact just seem to come to me. And why would I suddenly remember that, when she'd previously been a blur to me. Somehow the way she was dressed mattered to me. My eyes surveyed every detail.

"It's pouring out here... ah, are you going to invite me in?"

My thoughts and vision now focused on the dripping wet umbrella and nylon jacket. "Of course. I'm sorry, come in."

She left her umbrella on the doorstep, and when I'd closed the door, stripped her jacket off. Here was the one on one setting that I had been looking forward to. Here I felt sure, was the beginning of the end of the mystery that had puzzled me for the past few days. The beginning of the end of my mystery.

"I've just made some, tea, would you care to warm yourself around a cup."

"I would love some, thank you."

We went into the kitchen and I poured us two mugs of Earl Grey. Wrapping herself around a mug, it was some moments before either of us spoke. I had been surveying every detail of her for this story that I was convinced was brewing, and she was looking me over for what reason I didn't know. Somehow this scene had a romantic mood, and yet at the same time, I felt as though we were removed from it.

"So how was the nightlife of the West End." I asked, opening the conversation, and wanting to put my curiosity to bed.

"After we left you?"

I nodded.

"We went back to my apartment; I've got a one-bedroom over on Denman St."

"Sounds great. It must be interesting living in the West End."

"Oh I love it. My boyfriend would like me to come and live in Marpole where he is, but I like where I am. And besides, it's closer to where I work."

"You work in the West End as well." So that was her boyfriend, I had that possibility figured out.

"I work at CD's: Compact Discs."

"Oh! Great record shop!" I didn't have a CD player, so shopping in there wouldn't have done me any good. However, a little voice in the back of my conscience was suggesting that I should check the place out on a semi-regular basis. Maybe this would push me into splurging for one of the new marvels of audio technology.

"So where were you coming from that night." She asked.

Hey, I thought I was the one digging for information here. "I was coming from a concert at the Orpheum Theatre. Ever hear of the Kingston Trio?"

"They're that sixties folk group that's still going aren't they. Ya, I've heard of them, and they're not bad either.

"What's your taste in music?" She didn't seem like the type of person that listened to this kind music. And yet somehow it seemed to fit.

"I'm into new age and environmental sounds music."

"I guess that's what you sell in the store, among other types." So she's into the new age medium. It didn't seem to fit her choice of reading material, and yet there seem to be more facets to her then on a diamond. This story was getting more interesting.

"What about you, what's your musical repertoire."

My mystery girl came with a vocabulary that somewhat did not match my impression of her thus far. I would have to rethink the situation.

"I like classical music, jazz, folk oriented material and traditional music. And I see we have the same interest in New Age and in natural sounds; the sea the forest and things like that. Ever heard of Dan Gibson's, Solitudes."

"I have all his CDs."

Again, she was one up on me with this CD business, but of course working in a shop that sells CDs, it was obvious. Therefore I hesitated to show her my tape and record collection, which could, according to today's standards, be almost antique. But we did partly have the same musical interests, and so I was kind of hoping she would overlook my inferior stereo system.

"Would you like some more tea?" I saw that she had downed her mug rather quickly.

"Yes I would; Earl Grey isn't it."

My God... she's even acquainted with some of the finer blends of tea; at least Earl Grey. I poured her another mug, and took a cookie for myself from the plate between us.

"A girl I work with tells me that Earl Grey is considered by some people to be a herbal tea."

"Earl Grey is considered a herbal tea! I didn't know that." There was more to Diane than meets the eye, at least I had a lot more to learn. Like I said, there were more facets to her then on a diamond.

I was enjoying every minute of it. It was as though my mystery was unraveling slowly, so that I could savor every detail. And my brain was trying desperately to remember all of this for future use. Like I say, I felt there was a story and a character brewing.

"So tell me about these Bears you've been collecting. Just how does one get into collecting Bears?"

I gathered up the story of how I got into collecting bears, made a quick mental editing job and related the highlights. As I talked I noticed that she was becoming very interested, not just as curious as she had been. And at the same time that message I thought she had been sending me earlier had begun to return. Or, could I be misinterpreting something that was really nothing at all. Perhaps this so called message was just that. Nothing.

"Am I ah, to see the bears?"

My mind which had been wandering fast, was brought to a complete halt, and that moment, for what it was, had arrived.

"I'm sorry, yes, come on."

Leading her upstairs, I told her to be ready for an experience that she might not soon forget; if ever. At least that was the way I felt. This most interesting girl was about to walk into my room, and part of my life.

"Oh my God... Wild..." She whispered something else, but I couldn't hear it.

Diane didn't know where to look first. She just stood there in the doorway, moving her head from side to side like some machine, staring at the myriad of shelves covered with bears, the bear posters and such. I don't think she'd seen anything like it in her life, and by her stillness, might have felt a bit intimidated to not walk in. It was then that she walked into the room.

"Does this satisfy your curiosity?"

"I don't believe this." There was a hint of laughter as she said it.

"It is rather different, isn't it?" I moved from behind, so that I could begin to show her some of my more collectable ones.

"Different isn't the word..." She whispered, then caught her breath. "I think this is all right actually."

Somehow the bears and I had struck a positive note with Diane, and I felt pleased. I think the word awe might have been a somewhat accurate term for the way she was acting.

"How long have been doing this?"

"Collecting bears. I've been collecting bears for about the past ten, fifteen years. When I started, I never thought it would be like this."

"You mean all of this." She motioned with one hand. "How many bears do you have?"

"One hundred and four, I think."

"You think."

"Well, if they'd sit still long enough, I could count them."

"Ah, excuse me. They move... On second thought, don't answer that."
It had suddenly dawned on me that a remark like that might make her nervous, and this being the first time she was here, I especially didn't want to do that. But her reply for some unknown reason, put me at ease.

"I like to think they're real. It's fun to imagine they're real. After all, they all have their own individual personalities. Every face is different as you can see."

"I've noticed that; and some of these faces are beautifully created... May I." She motioned to take one of my more expensive, dressed ones off its shelf.

"Please, be my guest. He's unique isn't he? The deer hide and bead outfit he's wearing is authentic B.C. native dress of the Squilax Indians, of the Shuswap lake area, and the outfit is created by that particular band. And the deer hide outfits on the other two were created by the Westbank Indian band of the Okanagan area.

"They're adorable; must be very expensive."


I didn't normally discuss the cost of any of my bears with total strangers, but somehow Diane wasn't a stranger to me.

"He was quite a price when I got him, but he's worth it. And it's my passion."

"Your passion!" There was another hint of laughter, but this time stronger.

Hey! This is something I really enjoy, and what is it of her to make even the slighted bit of fun of it. I wasn't too fond of being made fun of, and I'm sure the bears weren't either.

"You find my passion rather humorous!"

"I'm sorry. I wasn't laughing. I think this is great, and I think it's very healthy to have a passion in your life-

I was quick to cut in. "But in your regards to this?"

"I think this is nice too; it's just a little overwhelming that's all. It's not like I see this every day you know."

The hair on the back of my neck which had been bristling ever since she'd started laughing, was now beginning to unbristle itself, and I somehow felt she was trying to atone for her present sins.

"I was laughing because I think this is great; and you're probably right, I might never forget this."

Now I was beginning to laugh. "It is kind of silly isn't it, a grown man playing with teddy bears."

We both burst out laughing, and any sort of momentary friction between us seem to disappear instantly. I could see the point and all, and could even laugh at it myself. But being laughed at was something I did not enjoy.

"Tell me about this one. Not a friendly type is he, by the expression on his face."

"That's Mr. Moncton the Musical, he's a 1920 Schuco, made in Germany. He's made of mohair, stuffed with excelsior and even has a music box."

"What's excelsior?"

That's wood shavings, very fine wood shavings. That was what they stuffed bears with, before they had synthetics."

"And he has a music box you say."

"Just squeeze his tummy."

She squeezed his tummy, and what was left of the tune he used to play came out. I told her that I didn't know what the tune he originally played was, but I would certainly love to find out.

"He's seventy years old! He must be worth something."

"I bought him in a thrift shop for two dollars, and yes he is rather worth something."

She very Carefully put him back on the shelf, and I never let her know it, but I breathed a sigh of relief. I don't usually let people handle him, as he is valuable and old. I Knew he was seventy years old, but the fact that she had pointed it out, seemed to put a clearer focus on this.

"And you named him Mr. Moncton the Musical? How did you come up that name?"

"The shop I found him in was on Moncton St, in Steveston here, and he's musical. And when I first laid eyes on him I thought of the old British music hall. He just reminded of me of music hall entertainer.

"Do all your bears have names?"

"Each and every one. How can you not name them."

"How do you come up with a name?"

"Well, the appearance of the bear itself may suggest whether it's a boy or girl, and that may suggest a name. Or where you got him or her may suggest one. Or even if he or she was a gift from someone, you might name the bear after them, or if the bear reminds you of someone or someone you know. Most bears today, whether created by large companies or teddy bear artists, come already named, and so that makes it a bit easier."

"You've got bears of almost every conceivable size; and ah, well, almost every conceivable size." She laughed again.

"Ya, and I can bear with that."

"Oh Ho Ho, bad pun. Does this go with collecting Bears?"

"Just ask any collector, bear puns can be habit forming."

I then spent the next few minutes introducing her to other members of the hug, and I could see that with several of the artist bears and some of the old, mohair ones, she just couldn't help herself but to pick them up and hold them.

"You referred to them as a hug, what's a hug?"

"A hug is a collector's term for a collection of bears."

"This really is amazing you know..." She surveyed the room again as she said it. "What do you do with them, do you just sit here and look at them?"

"Oh no. I take some of them out to schools and talk about real bears and the environment. Or I place them on display somewhere, in libraries and schools, and they've even been on display in one of our local heritage homes. As well myself and the hug have even been on TV a few times. I like other people to have the chance to enjoy them.

"Really! I'm a bit impressed; this is more than just a private passion."

"Oh yes, I do more than just keep them here for my own enjoyment. And when I'm no longer part of this world, many, many years from now I hope, they will go to a museum."

"So what do you do when you talk to school kids about real Bears and the environment?"

"I try to teach them that this planet is for saving, not for wasting; and I use the bears and their environment as an explanatory metaphor."

"So you take the more realistic ones from your collection for this."

"That's right."

Looking at her, my mind wandered back to the day she phoned me, and I remembered thinking how this comfortable one on one setting would be very conducive to my environment, and now in the present, feeling that it was coming true. I was really enjoying having Diane here, and I could see that she was having a good time as well. Like I said, the bears and I had struck a positive note.

"Do you have a favorite bear?"

"No I don't." I then explained to her that it was not a good idea to have a favorite bear, as the others might feel a bit put out, and I certainly did not want that. Certainly I was closer to the bear that I'd had ever since I was a child, but I couldn't say that he was my favorite. And I certainly didn't want to start sibling rivalry by any definition of the phrase.

"Which one is your childhood Bear?"

"This is him. Ted E period, and yes you say period bear. I held up a well-loved teddy. "He's a Chad Valley mohair from England. He almost knows more about me than I know about myself."

"You do think they're almost real, don't you."

"Certainly, they all have their own personalities; why shouldn't they seem real. Don't they seem real to you?" I stopped short for a moment, thinking that was a question I shouldn't have asked her. I had already given her the idea that I thought they moved, so what must she be thinking now.

"I guess they do seem real. I get the feeling they want to leap to their defence and say something."

Was she saying that because she meant it, or was she trying to humor me. I wasn't sure.

"I notice there's quite a selection of books on teddy bears as well. I didn't realize that this interest was so huge."

"I have about one-fiftieth of the books that are available, and you just can't have the bears without the books. A lot of the book are a reference material to the old and new bears."

"Why would you need a book on new bears?"

"To keep up to date on the new bears that are available, and the bear artists new to the scene. Magazines like Teddy Bear and Friends, Teddy Bear Review and Teddy Bear Times give you a very good view of the new artists and bears, but books like these get really in-depth, and are again, handy to have as a reference."

"And of course it's on bears, so you just have to have it." She had that look again.

"Well yes, that too I guess, sure." I felt for second that I was defending myself again, but that quickly went away.

"Are there any humor books per chance?"

"Ah yes, the book to which you have come to see." I reached for the book and opened it as we sat on the edge of my bed.

"A teddy bear shaped suitcase!"

With that remark we were off. With each cartoon we tossed several jokes back and forth to each other, and it was like Granville Mall Books all over again.

"This is like the book with Tom Selleck in it."

"This was written by Simon Bond, author of 101 uses of a dead cat."

"Oh I read that one."

She's read that one! Did she have a thing for death or something? I excused myself, saying that I had to take a nature break, and that if I didn't listen to mother-nature, she would introduce us to one of the great lakes.

The nature break gave me the chance to reflect on what was going on, and while I had my character, I was still looking for the story which I knew was brewing. And yet, I somehow felt that the story was brewing right here. And if there was a story to tell, it would begin and end here. Or rather, begin with the night of music and mystery.

When I returned, she was lying full length on my bed on her stomach, rotating one foot in midair.

"Ah; could you put my runner back on, if you wouldn't, mind, it kind of slipped off." She lowered her foot as she said it, not bothering to turn around. She was obviously very interested in the book.

I sat down on the bed, and going to put her laceless runner back on, something inside of me couldn't resist being a bit playful, and so I gave the sole of her bare foot a quick stroke with my forefinger.

She laughed, her foot shot from my grasp, and she rolled over. "What are you doing?" she asked, and by the Mona Lisa like smile on her face and the pleasurable tone in her voice, I got the impression she somehow didn't seem to mind what I'd done.

"Did you think I couldn't resist taking advantage of a possibly ah, ticklish situation."

"Oh Ho, Ho; bad pun! I surrender!"

With that she rolled back over on her stomach, stretched her leg out again, and slowly wriggling her toes, laid her foot in my lap-

Kind of a spooky experience I must say, thanks for sharing, enjoyed reading it.