Felicia peers at the picture in the darkness of the closet, trying to decide if the sleeping girl is the same one as the girl on the car.  But the red hair is the only link she can see – she can’t quite make out the features on either face.  She turns the picture over.  On the back it reads, “Megan – 1988” 

     She sets down the picture of the sleeping redhead and pulls out the next one.  

     The girl stood with her back to the camera, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.  Red hair snaked in dark coils down her bare shoulders, dripping into the carelessly-wrapped white towel.  Warm, wet air infested the glass.  The girl had wiped a space in the middle of the mirror, so that only her eyes could be seen.  The clear patch sweated, leaking drops of water that cut trails through the foggy mirror.  A blurred, weeping reflection.  

     Megan’s eyes widened when she heard the furtive click.  She whirled around in time to see a shadow slipping from the bathroom doorway.  Pulling her towel close, she peered through the open doorway into the hall.  

     Empty.  

     But she thought she heard a drawer slamming shut in her mother’s bedroom.  
  

     Later that night, Megan lay on flower-sprinkled sheets, wriggling her hips a little in encouragement, but otherwise ignoring the burrowing figure on top of her. She mentally ticked off all the little constellations in the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling, while emitting little moans of pleasure — just understated enough to be believable. She was never too dramatic about it. That was the secret. 

     Her personal constellations smiled down at her.  There’s Daffy, she thought, re-exploring her plastic galaxy. Phoenix in the corner. 

     He started breathing in that hard, whooshing sort of way.  Her right hip was cramping.  She tried surreptitiously shifting her weight, but his straining thigh pinned her down. 

     She spied Panda as the ache built up in her hip.  And The Eye in the center.  

     She felt his knees spreading her legs farther apart.  Her hip screamed.  His spine jerked as he climaxed, like a fish drowning in air.  

     Megan scuttled out skillfully from under him before he collapsed, letting him fall onto the pillow instead of her breasts.  She curled herself into fetal position with her back to him.  His breathing shuddered slowly into evenness, like a plane calming into cruising altitude.  Ding, she thought. The captain has turned off the fasten seat belt sign. You are now free to move about the cabin.  

     He turned over on his side and scooted towards her.  
     Perfectly-executed start, she judged as the bedsprings croaked; precise, controlled form across the flowered sheets.  A little trouble on the landing though; she winced as he elbowed her gracelessly in the ribs before settling into the spoon position.  A generous 9.68, decided Megan.  

     What are you thinking, sweetheart? he asked her, nuzzling into the bright red hair at the nape of her neck. Loving sweat anointing cool, dry skin. 

     Nothing, she said lightly, playing with his fingers against her stomach. Artfully absentminded. She hoped it passed for contentment.  

     He wanted to cuddle, to be romantic. To worship her. To save the haunted siren from her dreams, whenever she woke him up in the middle of the night with soft, mewling cries and gentle writhing. Sometimes he watched her, trapped in sleep-infected anguish, her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip so the blood smeared over her mouth.  

     He would have liked to cast himself in the role of shining knight, but could never find her dragons.