The familiar owl called out again. It had become a comforting noise by this time. There, in the grass, near a grave with a rare stone marker, a patch of the white flowers bobbed in the night breeze. Bloodwort, they were called; an ugly name for such a pretty thing, though Adrian knew it was because the juice in the stem was red as blood. It was too cold and too late in the season for such blossoms, but here they were anyway, as they always were. Adrian's fingers stopped a few inches from the flowers and he glanced at the headstone. He couldn't make out the name on it. Was it right to take flowers off of a grave, even if they'd only grown here by themselves? He'd come all this way, and without them he'd have no way of proving it...And then he heard it: a low, plaintive cry drifting on the wind. He'd mistaken it for an owl's shriek before, but now there was no taking it for anything but a woman's sobbing voice. And a moment later Adrian realized the truth: It wasn't a natural woman at. .. no.”When the food came, her plate was practically empty. Why is it that the more expensive a dish, the smaller the portion? After we ate, she insisted on an aperitif. I didn’t even know what that was, but evidently it is a very sweet, very expensive drink that is served in a thimble glass. Somehow she managed to make that tiny glass last for almost a half hour as she smiled and waved at almost everyone in the restaurant.When the bill came, and I got the slip back, she said, “Remember to make the tip twenty-five percent. I don’t want you to embarrass me in front of my friends.”“OK,” I mumbled as I noted how close to maximum my bill would be for the month.***When we got back to her apartment, Marti seemed to be in a very good mood. She invited me in and said that perhaps I would want some desert. I wasn’t sure what she meant until she came back out of the kitchen wearing a very short, almost transparent, black negligee. There was a pair of very tiny black bottoms clearly visible.
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