We met at the Barnes & Noble in Roseville. She was buying P.G. Wodehouse; I was sampling Ron Chernow. It was fall, and the books were turning blazing shades of yellow, orange, and red. At the coffee bar I told her I couldn't get enough of P.G. Wodehouse as a teenager. She told me she liked my suspenders. We suddenly agreed that pumpkin pie spice hot drinks were really not a thing. I paid for her hot chocolate. We sat together at a table that was too small for a kindergartner, let alone two shy tongue-tied adults. Our knees kept colliding.
Suddenly the front door banged open; a gang of rough looking men, badly shaved, burst in. They wore garish green nylon jackets, embroidered with considerable skill to show white bowling pins being knocked over by flaming skulls with glowing red eyes. These disreputable men looked about in grim anger. It was clear to see they were after blood.
My new friend stood up. So did I. She clung to me, shaking. Her hair smelled like Turtle Wax. I held her tightly, my body aching to reassure her of my sudden love.
"Those men" she whispered to me. "They're after me. Please don't let them find me."
I led her by the hand to a back exit of the store. We hurried through a shoe store and a coin laundry to emerge in the parking lot near my car. I drove her home. We sat on her couch and talked deep into the night. No, that's not right. We mostly held each other and nuzzled like horses in complete silence. She was like no other woman I had ever known. I could read passion in her eyes, but her body was cool to my touch and her kisses were awkward and tentative. She let her teeth get in the way. So we parted that night with bruised lips, and determined to be married the next day.
Her name was Storm. Storm Brunswick. She wouldn't tell me what those men in the green nylon jackets wanted with her. She told me very little about herself the next day, after we were married in the county clerk's office and drove to Marquette in the U.P. for a brief honeymoon amidst the hoarfrost and rainbow smelt.
Our first night together was magical. And tragic.
The motel room was paneled with newly resined pinewood. We could hang up our clothes simply by pushing them against the wall. Despite her name, Storm was very shy. She wanted to be held, and that was all. I figured she had never been with a man before, so I was very patient. We both fell asleep as the first fat moonbeams broke through the curtains. When I awoke several hours later, she was not in bed with me. Instead, I heard an ominous rolling noise -- as of something caroming blindly around on the floor in our room. I switched on the light to find a black bowling ball hurtling about -- seemingly under its own power. When I finally managed to grab it I could smell Turtle Wax.
"Storm, is that you?" I asked in bewilderment. In reply, the bowling ball quivered and tears dripped from the finger holes. I didn't understand what was happening, but I took the bowling ball, which I was convinced was actually Storm, back to bed with me. When I woke up in the morning, she was there beside me again -- more beautiful and vulnerable-looking than ever. I finally taught her how to make love, and we rejoiced silently in each other's physicality until late in the afternoon. Then she told me her story.
(Here the manuscript ends, with a shaky postscript that can just be made out as: "The world is not yet prepared for this story." The document itself, with no name on it, was found inside a battered violin case sold to a Mr. Alan Vanestartt at an estate sale in Upper Sandusky, Ohio. He in turn donated the violin case and its contents, which included a cheap red plastic shoehorn and a packet of millet seed for canaries as well as the manuscript, to the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute -- where it is currently in use as a doorstop.)
