A brief but furious account of a dream gone horribly wrong. A cross between Tarantino and David Lynch!
John had been in London for two days. He had rung Georgia three times at different times of day and had always got the answering machine. Each time he could find an explanation for her absence. He was still hesitating to call late into the night, or even after eleven thirty. Without really admitting it to himself, he was afraid not to find her there even then, and to lose sleep over it, to spend all night preyed on by terrible thoughts.