She doesn't expect him to be early, but the doorbell rings 5 minutes before the appointed meeting time of 6. Impressive. Settled as it is amidst this maze of labyrinthian streets, alleys and looming old buildings, the house is hard to find. One of the reasons why she chooses to live here. In this sprawling neighbourhood of shadows and secrets, she is at peace.

"Door's open. Come in."

A creak and slam of old wood. A protesting squeak of hinges. There he stands, just as she remembers him from almost ten years ago. I hate smoking...why am I doing it? God I must be going crazy, she thinks wonderingly.

She slips off the window ledge and turns to face him all in one fluid, graceful movement. "Hello Gabriel. It's been a long time." In between replies time ticks by on leaden wings. "Bronx. Yes it's been a while hasn't it?"

She motions him to the sofa with the cautious smile he knows so well. "Sit down, I'll get you something to drink." She moves to the kitchen quickly; she is not aware of his gaze following her, noting that the years have not changed the lithe, easy striding grace that so characterized her in their years at college together.

In a moment she returns, sets the glass with its tinkling ice-cubes and golden swirl of orange juice on the black-and-steel coffee table. A lazy curl of cigarette smoke from the burning tip held between her fingers. Suddenly she can't bear to look at it any longer, much less take another drag. Abruptly she darts to the window and tosses it out with some unnecessary vigour. Dropping into the papasan opposite the sofa, she regards her guest with keen dark eyes. "Yes, I painted those."

Gabriel turns from his scrutiny of the paintings hung on the walls. "I could tell. You've a distinctive style." The glass is lifted in a languid hand. "It was a surprise running into you at the art museum. I didn't know you were exhibiting."

She gives a low chuckle. "I don't believe I expected to run into you either Gabriel. It's been almost 10 years. I occasionally exhibit, but not often. This one was a request from the museum in conjunction with the William Blake prints exhibition this month."

The silence that follows is awkward. Almost as if the barrier of the years has been made stronger with their proximity to each other. She leans back in the papasan, a little smile escaping her. "So how have you been? Aside of your writing of course..."

"Fairly well, all considered." He eyes her critically. "I don't recall ever seeing you with hair that short, Matsu Kajima. But I'll have to admit, it's a startling improvement..."

A spontaneous peal of surprised laughter breaks from her. "God, Gabriel, I didn't even think you would remember my real name, not after all these years being known only as the girl called Bronx." Thin fingers run through the spiky semi crew-cut of her hair. "Yes the hair is much easier to take care of this way. A brush and some gel and all systems are go. No fuss." She eyes him with dry humor. "And yes. It is a vast improvement, as you so delicately expressed. You haven't changed a farthing from your delightful sarcastic self either."

A smirk from Gabriel. "Oh, you'd be surprised what I remember, Bronx. And my delightful sarcastic self, as you put it so well, has improved over the years." He sets his glass down and leans back into the sofa cushions.

Bronx raises a mock supercilious brow. "Oh, I wouldn't have thought it of you Gabriel. You perfected the art years ago. What else needs to be improved?" God this sounds so familiar, she thinks. Deja vu from nearly ten years ago.

Gabriel's ready retort remains unspoken even as a sudden loud "thud" sounds. Bronx frowns slightly, tilting her head. Before she can comment, the noise sounds again. It seems to come from the front door.

"Must be some kids trying to throw newspaper at the door." Bronx stands to her feet, obvious annoyance tinged with a strange relief. "Some of the little brats do that just to get us to yell at them. I'll be back."

Outside it's windy, but the air is oppressively hot and sultry. She comes out onto the porch to look around. Nothing. Not a child in sight.

She frowns, a furrow on her brow. Something is troubling her, though she does not know what it could be. Perhaps it is the heat that clings with sticky tentacles to every pore of her body, but she is uneasy.

As she prepares to go in, a sudden gust of wind moans right beside her ear. She gives a jump, startled, a sudden frisson of fear she's never felt before running down her spine. Her instincts scream alarm klaxons in her mind.

*WHOOSH!* A sudden slap across the face makes her gasp; before she can recover, something icy cold restricts her throat, cutting off her airflow. She tries to scream, to no avail.

Oh god what's happening to me...let me go you...you...thing...letgoletgoletgoletgo!

Terror stricken, she reaches her hands up to pry the constriction away; by some miracle it loosens for a split second enough for her to grasp frantically at the door handle, fling herself into the house and slam the door...