		       THE LIFE SNATCHER

       (c) Copyrighted 1993  by Franchot Lewis


	 We seldom went to parties, attended only one that season:
     that one where we met him. We knew the hostess from our
     university days at Cambridge. She introduced us to him. His
     name was Robby and he was from the Midlands, and according
     to the hostess, "the most splendid free-lance writer of travel
     articles" for the her magazine. He looked to be in his late
     twenties and showed a fondness for women.
	 He took a fancy to my wife, though she was fifteen years
     older than him. He chatted her up, danced with her, stayed
     with her the whole evening, as if I wasn't present. She seemed
     to be flattered with the young chap giving her all of his
     attention. I watched her, standing close, holding onto his
     words, touching his arm at a point, as she giggled at his
     supposed wit.
	 When I raised my eyebrow, grinned and called her toward
     me, she batted her eyes, grinned back. "You're the wallflower;
     you stand in corners and don't talk; this is a party."
	 The room was full of people, some looked and some
     grinned. I pretended to be unconcerned, especially when she
     returned her attention solely to him.
	 When it was time to leave, fool that I am, I had no
     good reason, I didn't like the man, but I invited him home
     for drinks. My wife told him, I wrote travel books. Modesty -
     [He asked if he could see something I had written, I began
     to shake my head and to say, No.] Vanity - yes, vanity moved
     me to nod quickly my head. My new book was in galley form. I
     would show him what The Times' reviewer had written, praising
     my efforts.
	 We left the party together, and he followed us home in
     his car.
	 He spent less than three minutes and eighteen seconds
     glancing at my manuscript which I soon put away with a
     haughty laugh, saying, "Just a little scribbling." Again,
     modesty.
	 He did offer a few pleasantries, as my wife served him
     a tall glass of wine and sat close to him, as though he was
     a boyfriend she had just brought home. His purpose was
     obviously, not to give attention to my writings, but to my
     wife. He flirted with her until I showed displeasure. When
     he was leaving she went out to his car to see him off.
	 She was out there ten seconds, a minute, two minutes. I
     was tired and drowsy and was getting trier and drowsier. I
     wanted to go up to bed. The wine, the long evening, and the
     tension were telling me that I needed to rest. I couldn't
     leave her out there seeing him off. I waited a good minute
     or two more before I went outside to hurry her along.
	 He was in the car, but she was standing along side. Her
     hair was untidy. Her eyes were wide. He was grinning,
     starting up the car's motor to leave. It was obvious that
     he or she had been up to no good. I yelled, "What in the Hell
     have you been doing?"
	 She giggled as he drove off. She pulled me toward her
     and kissed me, put her tongue in my mouth, right out in the
     drive way, like she didn't care if the neighbors saw. "The
     randy bastard kissed me," she said, "and he took my knickers."
	 "What?"
	 She pulled me inside the house, slammed the door, and
     pulled her dress over her head. "Look, love, no knickers,"
     she giggled.
	 I had to pull myself from her. She was all over me,
     trying to pull loose my clothes, and cuddle with me, and put
     her legs to mine. He had obviously excited her, aroused her
     into her giggly state. She paid no attention to my
     recriminations.

	 "Why don't you ever want me?"
	 "Get a hold of yourself," I said.
	 "Honey?"
	 "So it's honey now? All evening it was him."
	 "Him? Don't think about him. I don't want him. You."
     She tried to hug. I pushed her away.
	 "Stop, and get a hold of yourself."
	 "All he took were my knickers. I pushed him off," she
     said. "He's strong. He grabbed me, kissed me, put his hands
     under my skirt and pulled at my knickers before I could stop
     him, but I pushed him off. I want you."
	 "Do you know what you're saying? He ravished you and
     it delights you; you want us now to go upstairs and rut
     like dogs?"
	 She laughed out loud. The intensity of her laughter
     startled me. I thought that maybe she was turning daft. I
     decided to speak sweetly to her.  I said, "Maybe I can get
     you something that will calm you."
	 She laughed. "I don't want to be calm, and I want us to
     rut, not like dogs, like lovers, and not upstairs, but
     here, and now."
	 There was no reasoning with her. Her head was full of
     thoughts of illogical construction. My head was filled with
     fatigue, anger and outrage, too. I was irritable. It was
     time to go to bed, but I could not go to sleep leaving this
     unsettled. "I'm going to make us a cup of tea," I said.
     "Then we shall sit and talk this out, and I'll see if I
     should break that guy's head."
	 I left her on the sofa, returned in only a few minutes
     with strong tea and sugar-less biscuits. She was naked and
     she was dancing around the room as though she was dancing
     close with a partner, with her hand around his neck. She
     moaned as she danced. I thought she was too far gone for
     talk. I sat the tea tray down, and went up stairs to bed.
	 I undressed and lay in bed, wishing she would come
     upstairs.  I waited until I saw the day light outside
     arrive, then I shut my eyes and fell asleep.
	 I awoke to a late Sunday afternoon and looked at the
     sleeping woman laying besides me. She had on the nightgown I
     had given her the last Christmas. She looked wifely, pretty
     and serious again. I thought that we would never again have
     to speak of the events of last evening. She sat up yawned,
     stretched her arms and smiled warmly. "I shall serve you
     tea in bed," she said.
	 She pulled on a robe. She went down stairs and I waited,
     and I waited for her to return. As I waited I thought of
     that guy, of how he made an utter fool of me, and
     disrespected my wife. I became angry. I thought of revenge.
     I planned to shoot him - a rifle shot between the eyes, the
     way beasts are shot. As I waited further, I thought of how
     he must have kissed her when he stole her knickers. I
     thought of how she must have felt. Later, when she grunted
     and moaned as she danced downstairs alone, I wondered if she
     had imagined him there. I swore I would shoot him only
     after having smashed his face.
	 A half hour passed, she hadn't returned. This gave me a
     horrible thought. I got a nasty suspicion. I feared he had
     come around again. I went down stairs; not tip-toeing, not
     trying to sneak up on her, and not particularly silent. I
     called out to her.
	 I saw the back of a man's head, first. It rosed up
     behind the sofa. Then, walking toward him, I saw her
     naked on the rug. He was naked too, and bent over her. Her
     eyes were glazed as though she had collapsed where he had
     her. She was moaning. He was heaving madly, up and down on
     her like a dog, rutting for its life.
	 I shouted at her, "Harlot! Whore!"  I looked around
     wildly, searching for something to smash them. I saw a lamp.
     I raised it to strike when I heard her sighing and groaning
     at him. "Laurence, Laurence. Ohhh, Laurence," she said.
	 "My name? Bitch, why are you calling him my name?"
	 He turned and he looked back. He had my face. Was it my
     body? I dropped the lamp.
	 Suddenly, I was not there, but in a white room with no
     furniture, just one bunk. A space ship? He was there with my
     face, with my wife. He had snatched me away from my life, and
     put me in a ship, where I've been shut away alone for years
     until you came.
	 And what is he? Shapeshifter? Changeling? Warden? Uh? Life
     snatcher.

     {END}

     (c) Copyright  1993 by Franchot Lewis. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
