She'd fled it a thousand times, slammed the door on it, sworn the old charms and curses on her threshold to keep it out. And, for a while, it had stayed out, deceptively obedient, a wolf playing dog.

But now, dark eyes met hers, eyes that seemed to recognize her in the midst of a crowded room.

Though he recited to many gathered in the dingy East Village basement, his poetry seemed uttered for her alone, as if he had secretly journeyed a lifetime at her side, and this were not their first acquaintance, but a reunion.

Barely noticing the squeak of the metal folding chair as she shifted raptly forward, Mari suddenly felt an overwhelming homesickness. Looking into this man's eyes was like coming home after long captivity, slipping out of travel-stained clothes and falling into the slumber of a child. By the time he stopped reading, the idea of turning away without meeting him made Mari want to break down.

He glanced up. Shook the sandy blond hair out of his face. Smiled at her. She could no longer pretend invisibility.

Her guard crumbled to dust. Exile silently declared at end, Mari navigated the pierced and tattooed crowd and reached the podium.

"Tom," he said, as if he had mistaken her for himself.

"Mari," she corrected him gently.

"What kind of accent is that? I know you from somewhere, don't I?"

Mari grimaced. "Maybe from a milk carton... haven't been around much lately."

Tom looked perplexed, then laughed. "Well, I can change that. I -- " His eye strayed abruptly, startlement, then suspicion transforming his face.

Mari turned, following Tom's glance. In the shadows at the rear, a back door, flaking black paint, banged shut in the autumn wind. "You weren't here with anybody, were you?"

"No," said Mari uneasily.

"Someone seems to think you were." Tom read her expression, almost hungrily. "Are you in some kind of trouble, Marie?"

"Mari. No, I'm not in trouble, and I'm quite alone. At least, I'd better be."

"Maybe you'd better not be," said Tom. "You don't look like you're built for it."

He was wrong.

"...depression," said Mari, unable to meet Tom's eyes. Her words steamed and evaporated in the winter air, roar of motors drowning her voice as the red light changed on Avenue B. They stood outside a bar, the passing headlights burning stripes across Mari's vision.

Tom's face contorted with anger. Mari recoiled instinctively.

He grabbed her wrist and twisted it, pulling her close. "I don't care what kept you from calling me for a week. If you think you can get rid of me that easily, think again."

"I... don't want to be rid of you," Mari lied, swallowing. A taxi swerved by the curb where they stood, jerking to a stop. Two women and a guy got out, talking animatedly. Carefully avoiding eye contact with Mari, they ran into the Cave, music breaking forth as the doors to the bar opened and shut.

A truck jounced past, trailing diesel exhaust. Mari coughed.

"...anyway, to dump me now would be suicide," Tom continued, unaware of her distraction.

Whose? Mari wondered, pulling back from him. He tightened his hold, twisted sharply. She yelped.

"Sometimes I think I know you better than you know yourself," Tom said. "I wonder what would happen to you if I weren't around to keep you from your worst impulses."

You are my worst impulse. And you don't know me at all. She thought back to the poetry reading a long three months ago: the sweep of his sandy blond hair, the seduction of his poems... they made her cringe now. She was tired of being mistaken for someone else, tired of answering irrelevant questions, mortally tired of being manipulated into things she couldn't stand remembering....

Mari wanted to say something, but it was so vast, vaguely worded and probably unforgivable that she promptly forgot it. Twisting a few strands of her long black hair, Mari waited for Tom to break the silence.

"Are you coming inside or not?" he asked.

"Can't we do something else?"

Tom sighed impatiently. "We just got here." He paused, then smiled nastily. "But if you want, we can go back to my apartment and discuss this some more."

Mari pushed open the door, not letting Tom see the look on her face. They waded through a nimbus of leather-clad hipsters. Mari shrugged out of her coat. Were people staring at her? She felt overexposed in the low-cut black silk dress Tom liked. Everybody else was dressed casually. Great, she thought. I'm too formal, yet slutty. Dressed to kill myself.

Last night: Tom gasping with pleasure as the razor blade slit Mari's leggings, revealing the soft white skin of her inner thigh, her blood welling up in a thin red line.... Mari fought back disgust, burying the memory in the bar's din.

Tom slid out of his parka. He wore his computer-consultant suit, a tweed blazer over a T-shirt and jeans. "I'll get you a beer," he shouted over the music.

The mass of worn denim and big hair swallowed him. The tang of male sweat hung over the hipsters, black leather knights riding under their own banner, vassals to Rebellion. Flash of memory: parties at music school, friends she'd left behind. Gone now, she told herself, pushing the memory away harshly.

She let the Cave engulf her. Rebellion's theme song blared from the stage on the other side of the club: five guys, three guitars, a keyboardist with bright orange hair. A banner above them proclaimed "Heretÿx d.. Soleil." Mari laughed. Rock mysticism: wryte "y" ynstead of "i", p..t uml..uts ..ver ..very oth..r v..wel....

Tom wasn't back yet. He probably couldn't see her from where he was. And the door was pretty close. How long would it take him to realize she'd left; how fast could he follow her once he did?

I can't do this, she thought, imagining his face when he caught up with her.

Something wet dripped onto her shoulder, condensation from the beer bottle Tom held out. She grabbed the beer and chugged it.

Tom stared. "Anything wrong?"

"No." Mari set the empty bottle down. Strange energy coursed through her. "I'd like to dance." She stood.

Tom shook his head. "Getting over your fear of rock?"

"No," she answered. She plunged into the crowd. Tom trailed after her with his beer bottle.

"Sometimes you're inscrutable, you know that, Marie?" he said.

Yeah, inscrutable old me. And you still can't get my name right. In Hungarian: MAH-ree, not Marie, not Mary -- which Tom proclaimed "unpronounceable" because he couldn't pronounce it.

They found a place in the middle of the floor. Mari swayed haltingly, watching Tom lurch and gyrate. Only three months ago, he'd been artistic, avant-garde; now even his dancing struck her as unbearably pretentious. At least he's native to it, thought Mari. I'm the foreigner, no desire to learn the language, thanks.

A thought scratched its way to the surface of her mind: You don't have to be with Tom anymore. Let's go.

I can't, Mari answered the thought, as if it weren't her own. He'll follow me and be so angry he'll probably hit me.

He won't catch you.

Leave me alone! she protested, feeling detached and dizzy. I'm just trying to survive another god-awful Friday night. The last thing I need is this ... distraction. Every muscle in her body jumped as she danced, movements tight and electric. These are not my ideas. "Forget it," Mari said, blood humming in her veins.

"What?" Tom shouted over the music.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she shouted back. He nodded. Mari pushed her way out of the crowd.

The restroom door was conveniently near the back exit. I'm not going to ditch Tom, Mari told herself. She pushed open the door and went in. The music diminished.

A mirror caught her reflection: green eyes shining in a pale face. Mari rummaged in her purse, found her comb. Her hair didn't need combing. She combed it anyway.

Taking a deep breath, Mari made herself relax. The tingling in her blood subsided, and steeling herself, she went back out.

Pushing through the dancers, Mari suddenly knew: Tom isn't here.

Trying to prove herself wrong, she wandered through the sea of people. At length Mari gave up. Disoriented, she found herself poised at the exit.

An image flashed in memory: a door, flaking black paint, slammed shut by the wind. You weren't here with anybody, were you --

"You leaving for good?" asked the bouncer. "You can't come back in, you know."

As if I'd want to. Mari nodded, and stepped onto the barren street.

"Tom?" she called experimentally. No answer.

She headed west on Twelfth Street, the neighborhood empty and lifeless except for her. Hope it stays that way. Walking faster.

A low whistle. A tune she vaguely recognized. Footsteps behind her. Mari made a face, and crossed the street. Unfazed, the whistling followed.

Tom is probably playing a stupid joke, Mari thought angrily, wanting to look back, not wanting to give her fear away. Hurry, faster... Perhaps a store was open on the next avenue? Corrugated metal gates sealed most places, the ramparts of Fortress New York. Just get to the avenue. The thought echoed strangely in Mari's head.

"Tom?" Mari yelled. Not Tom. Lately she had forgotten there were dangers other than Tom.

Mari reached the corner, turning left on Avenue A. FUNERARIA SAN JUAN, brown stucco walls. Closed.

Next door, a storefront window displayed a heap of discarded sewing machines. Also closed. The footsteps continued after her.

On the end of the block, light spilled onto the street from a large window -- a deli, Mari hoped. Be open. Be open, she begged.

Crescendo in the tune. L'homme arm.., Mari thought wildly. I first heard it in Medieval/Renaissance Music History 101, for Christ's sake! Who the hell walks down Avenue A whistling L'homme arm..? Not Tom; he didn't know early music. Picturing headlines the next day: "East Village Woman Attacked by Crazed Musicologist," Mari grinned, despite her fear. The thoughts rolled in her mind as before, a drowsy echo.

The whistling stopped. Close behind her, a soft deep laugh.

Mari sprinted towards the light, screaming.

Not-Tom ran too. The store was half a block away. He closed in, gripping her shoulder. Mari twisted away, purse catching on something, fabric ripping as she pulled it back. She lurched across the store's threshold.

Cheap little thrift shop. Worse than K-Mart. Latin music playing. A knot of teenage boys, one staring at her, another playing video games. Ignoring them, she hurried to the back of the store. Telephone. Store owner. Somebody tell the guy behind her to fuck off, call the cops, do kung-fu, something. Don't you stupid assholes see him? Mechanically, eyes locked straight ahead, Mari followed the aisle. Barbie dolls in dusty boxes smiled pertly from their shelves.

Old lady and a tall guy coming down the aisle. Mari's heart leapt. "Help me," she croaked. Useless whisper from a dry throat. The old lady, horribly tricked out in a low-cut black evening-gown, tried to say something too. Clearing her throat, Mari flung herself at the strangers.

Her hand struck glass. Mari cried out in shock. So did the old woman, who carried a torn purse like Mari's. Mirror?! --

The man towering behind her grinned. Unkempt black hair to his waist, almond-shaped black eyes, long black duster.

Mari spun; froze.

Two eyes dark as bullet holes burned into her with cold hunger. Soil and blood clotted his hair. The smell of dank earth enveloped Mari.

The energy I felt in the bar, she thought. The suggestions to go outside. He drew me out... The black eyes stabbed hers. Mari felt pushed down a well, falling violently into narrow black depths.

He let her know his name, speaking no word aloud: Miercurea. Me, air, coo, RAY, ah...

"Mi-er-cu-re-a," said Mari slowly.

Suddenly she was in the store again, staring at a man who was staring at his own reflection in the mirror behind her.

Man and reflection: two emaciated, pale faces, neither breathing. Two pairs of eyes, like live fossils entombed in stone, fixed upon each other in utter bewilderment.

Mari took a deep breath, pulled herself together, and ran.

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