She hasn't been to one of these in years.

Her policy has always been simple: stay in the middle of the group. That way, the hands that reach from the walls could never land on her, and spooky surprises would be diffused by other bodies before they could cause her stomach to flip.

Tonight, though, she drifts along behind the group, enjoying the snapshots that her vantage point and the strobes create. Kelly burying her face in Ryan's coat.  Bob keeping a protective arm around Phyllis. Gil laughing in Oscar's ear, one hand on his back. Once, Michael looks back and spots her, and she's sure that he'll call her to the front, but he just smiles and turns back to Carol.

Club music pounds around her, punctuated with the screams and creaks of a sound effects collection. The music, the lights, and the shuffling pace work to put her into something of a trance. She wonders if hypnotism subjects are conscious of their state. She speculates that the trance simply disengages the normal controls a person keeps herself under, much as alcohol does. Because she's fully aware of whom and where she is, but feels also a separateness, as though she no longer has weight, only senses.

The music becomes less a sound than a thump against her sternum. She slows, and the group edges away, turning a corner, out of sight. A few teenagers sweep around her to rush ahead, and she's alone.

It occurs to her that she could turn, take two lefts and a right, and be driving home before the others realize she's gone. She stops.

Takes a step back.

Meets a body.

She stands very still. The body is warm, the chest rising against her back. She breathes. It breathes. She rocks back a bit on her heels. Its breath rocks her gently forward again.

She begins to turn but stops when a hand comes to rest on her shoulder. Another draws her hair from over her ear.

"Not yet," he says.

His hand remains, pushes slightly until she steps forward. She walks slowly, guided past jumping skeletons and a plastic cauldron of dry ice. A wisp of fake cobweb floats up to brush her hand. A cat yowls on the soundtrack, and she walks, past gravestones and candelabra and a skull with red eyes.

As she turns a corner, the hand stops her. She can't see it as she stares ahead, but it pulls and she steps backward. Once, twice, three times, and the hallway stretches before her. With the fourth step, the black cloth lining the path brushes past her and the light is gone.

Her senses shift.

The chemical smell of the stage fog is replaced by him: cologne, shampoo, soap, laundry detergent, warm skin. He is every scent clean and male.

She feels him close behind her, what little air remaining between them charged to sparking. His hand slips from her shoulder and down her arm. It covers her own, threading into her fingers.

She can hear him breathing, and she knows that his face is close to hers, hovering next to her ear, perhaps.

She knows that there is one more sense, and so she begins to turn toward him again. Again he stops her, squeezes her hand, fills her ear with warm breath.

"Not yet."

She closes her eyes.

He leans into her hair and breathes her in. Bares her neck and sighs softly against her skin. It causes her to shiver. He moves their hands to her belly, and he is silent for a moment. Then his lips touch her, warm and soft, and her breath catches. She holds it as he places a kiss, then another, and another. When he pulls her collar down and presses his open teeth to her skin, she inhales again, and he pulls her backward against him.

He envelops her. One hand is strong over hers. His other arm rests firmly under her breasts, those fingers spread on her ribs. His body is warm (she thinks), firm (she feels), solid (she hopes). She lifts her free hand up and back, and finds his hair. Still soft.

She arches her back, and his mouth moves around to the side of her neck, his nose pressing into her jaw. His hands move apart, one up, one down. His thumb brushes across her nipple as his tongue touches down, hot, wet, and firm against her pulse, and she gasps.

She tries to spin. He holds her tightly.

"Not yet."

She makes a frustrated sound, and reaches behind her. Her hands find his legs, begin sliding up and down over his slacks. His thighs are tense underneath, the muscles there new to her. She squeezes them, then fills her fists with fabric and pulls. Warm, firm, solid.

He groans. She lets go, covers his hands with hers, guides them to the edges of her clothing. She feels one slide under her sweater to move smoothly across her navel, up to her ribs, over thin satin. The other deftly unbuttons her jeans, then pulls the zipper. She jumps when his fingertips touch her skin. She braces herself as they glide downward. When he reaches her panties, he begins flirting with the waistband, snapping it lightly against her skin, teasing one fingertip under it at a time. She moans and reaches once again for his hair, pulling his lips to her neck. He understands, and slips his fingers under the elastic. She stands on tiptoe as he feels his way down. She knows he must feel the dampness on his knuckles as he curves two long fingers back between her legs. When he sweeps them forward along hot, slick skin, she whimpers and her head falls back. He immediately begins tracing circles with a fingertip, catching the most sensitive part of her on each upstroke. Her breathing alternates between gasps and moans as he dips and strokes. She feels the ripples begin, and urges him to quicken his pace. He does, and she sinks into him, her breath hard and rasping now. When the waves start to break over her, she reaches back and grips him in one hand. He bites into her shoulder and makes a choked growling noise as she cries his name.

She stands against him, panting, for a long while, his scent her air, his heartbeat her time. He brings his arms back around her middle and holds her close. She brushes her fingertips over the backs of his hands, then over the hair on his wrists. When she ventures farther up his sleeves, he catches her hands and holds them between his. He kisses her lightly on the neck, then on the cheek, then on the bottom lip. He tastes of caramel. When she seeks his lips, they elude her, catching her earlobe.

"Soon," he says.

His arms and breath fall away, leaving a ghost of warmth on her skin. She is still for a moment, then turns and steps back. She draws aside the black fabric behind her, and watches as the space where she was just standing is caught in the flicker of a strobe. When she doubts her eyes, she sweeps a hand through the empty air before her.

He is gone, if ever he was there.