Jerry tapped the brass door-knocker, and waited.

He glanced down at the street of neatly rowed houses, disgusted. He hated the suburbs. He hated the lady's terrier that had snapped at his ankle, he hated the puddle he'd soaked his sixty dollar shoe in, and he especially hated Billy Gordon.

But it was his own policy that bound him to the task. It started out as more of a delegation joke than anything: for a supervisor to fill the shoes of a subordinate if a problem arose. Supposedly, he had at one time reasoned that it would build character. Now the absent Billy Gordon was his problem, and he was in no mood to discuss character. He shifted the weight of the newspaper bag then rapped on the door again.

A chain slid across and the door cracked open.

"Yes," came a soft voice.

A woman stepped into view.

Jerry's blood coursed through his veins as his heart suddenly leapt to life, immediately altering his damning perception of suburbia. She was an angel, a siren, no, a goddess. Her long dark hair flowed past her shoulders, framing a confident yet innocent face. A shy look was in her eye, yet her smile was one of alluring mischief. And her sheer black gown only served to enhance the stunning form beneath.

Jerry stood motionless, gawking. A lump formed in his throat as he tried to speak, but his mind was as blank as a yogurt stain. Billy was long forgotten.

She looked into his eyes, into his soul. He felt dizzy.

"Please, come in."

He gulped, and obediently stepped inside. A foolish grin stretched his glazed face as he watched her close the door.

She turned to him.

"Uh," Jerry tried to recall what he was meant to be doing, and noticed he was scratching his head. He lowered his hand and struck the bag at his side. "Um..." he started, though somehow felt foolish. "Well, I noticed that your house-"

"Who is it?" A withered old man in flannel pajamas came into view down the hallway. He stared vacantly at Jerry.

"Oh, uh, sorry," said Jerry, "I hope I didn't wake your grandfather."

"Pay him no mind," the woman replied, "he's got none of his own anyway." A curious comment, thought Jerry. But the man did look rather old. Ancient, in fact.

She looked down the hall, "Why don't you go rest?"

Gray eyebrows squeezed heavily down as the man considered, then, in his own time, agreed. "Yes, dear, I am tired. I think I'll go lay down."

She turned back to Jerry and smiled seductively as the old man disappeared behind a slowly pulled door. "Where were we?"

Jerry mustered his courage, "Um, well, I noticed you're the only house on this side of..."

His voice trailed off as she lifted the strap over his head and dropped the bag to the floor. She took hold of his trembling hand. But it wasn't fear that caused him to shake. No, quite the opposite!

She led him past several doors to a dimly lit room at the very end of the hall. It contained a solitary piece of furniture: a satin covered bed.

The door clicked shut. Silently, she slid onto the bed and pulled him to her.

Now Jerry was not entirely unfamiliar at least with some of the arts of love, though the opinions of his two ex-wives might beg to differ. But the things this mysterious woman introduced him to were unlike anything he'd ever before experienced in all of his thirty-two short years. Each time was like a magic carpet ride to another realm of existence; a whirlwind of ecstasy that left him exhausted beyond all care and painted his subsequent dreams with a soothing kaleidoscope of- He awoke to the rap of a brass door-knocker. The empty sheets beside him were still warm.

The knocking repeated as he slid to his feet and shuffled into the hall.

"Who is it?" he found himself asking.

A policeman stepped into view, pulling off mirrored sunglasses. His other hand held two photos. "Sorry," he said to Jerry's new lover as she closed the door, "was your grandfather taking a nap?"

"Pay him no mind," she replied, "he's hardly got any of his own." Then she turned to Jerry, "Why don't you go rest?"

Curiously, he did feel drowsy. "Yes, dear," he numbly answered, "I am rather tired... I think I will lay down."

He paused. Something was wrong.

Or was it? He wasn't sure.

He turned the knob on the door next to him.

A silhouette was slumped against the far wall of the dark room. Jerry fumbled for a light switch and tripped, spilling newspapers from one of two bags at his feet. His flailing hand struck the switch and the shadow instantly became a familiar old man in flannel pajamas.

Jerry crawled closer. The man didn't stir, just stared up at the ceiling. He nudged the man's shoulder causing his head to loll to the side. A dark redness stained the flannel collar, above which several puncture marks like paired bee stings cut deep into his flesh.

Jerry shuddered as he brought his hand away from his own neck. His fingertips were sticky; his fingertips were red.

And his hand was old. Ancient, in fact.

Beyond the door he could hear an elated policeman being led towards a satin covered bed.

Jerry leaned against the wall to rest.