I see Esme's face in the stones that surround me. The outline of her face is there in the mortar and rounded stones. Even that hard and unmoveable statement, grey, of the last time I saw her is there in the stones. I found it quite by accident when I was precariously staring at the stone wall. She appeared after an hour when my eyes began to drift and refocus over and over. I suddenly brought myself back from wherever I was at that particular time, and she was just there; she hasn't left. I've tried etching away the smugness of her face with various objects in my cell and she withstands all attempts, triumphant. Seeing that smugness makes me think of our last conversation in Esme's kitchen. Over the past months I've reconstructed her words accurately enough, although there may have been words I've consciously forgotten. She sat at the table; I stood in the doorway. "She's me, isn't she William?" "Who?" "That woman in your story. She's me isn't she?" "I don't want to be bothered with you right now, Esme, I'm enjoying this coffee. I've often told you--" "It doesnt' bother me, William. It doesn't bother me that I am, in your mind, that woman. I mean, I've often thought about becoming a different person, stepping into another person, another life. Just living another life. She's probably one of your better characters, anyway. No, I'm through with you right now for different reasons. It's over. Just leave." She smiled at me. Actually, she laughed at me briefly. I had, by this time, moved from the doorway into the chair opposite of Esme and continued to drink my coffee; for, Esme frequently uttered similar remarks quite unexpectedly, sometimes dismissing me for weeks on end. I was also, by this time, used to her unreasonable and angular shifts of emotion and mood. Our time together often ended where it didn't begin without any apparent cause. Her dismissal this night began as nothing exceptional. I started to leave, but before I was completely through the kitchen doorway I heard the grating of wood on tile as Esme pushed her chair away from the table. When I looked back she was already standing, looking directly at me. Apparently, she was not finished with me because her face had a look of anticipation, a face just before a sneeze, full of violent muscle contortions. Then, quite visibly, a calm passed over Esme and her anticipation smoothed into the face of a child. She stood there like a popular twelve year old, and me, like her victim who wants nothing more than to be alone. "I'm fucking Jared Welch. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday." I didn't respond, so she continued, not to explain herself, but to enjoy her control over the situation; she was in an obvious reverie. "You ought to try doing something different, William. It really enhances your entire day, casts the world in different colors and shadows you've never seen before. For instance, all day you go back and forth with your lawn mower like a rerun, cutting rows all day. Your only colors are white lines, then green lines, all day. Even your stories have kept up a dreary consistency. I've counted: in thirteen out of twenty-two completed stories you've written, it's been raining. That fact limits your color palette by three-fourths." I was fully determined to leave, and I was gaining on the front door. Somehow I still held the coffee mug, empty at this point; an opportunity never presented itself to set it down without seeming a bit awkward. My mind stumbled. I thought Esme had gone too far this time. Certainly our relationship occasionally crawled, even scratched its way forward; nevertheless, I had always perceived it as moving forward; I always wrote my stories for her. Apparently, Esme has had different opinions, and has kept them from me for one year and one month. I was almost out when Esme called again; she had moved to the doorway of the kitchen, leaning with her arms crossed. "You know, William, when Jared and I are finished and lying there naked, and when Jared soothes me by stroking and touching my thighs, the way I taught you when we were teenagers, I often read your stories to him. And I was first surprised when Jared starting laughing. You often told me how important writing is; so, I believed you. But he laughed, and there was a moment, then I started to laugh as well, right there in bed! If nothing else, I was just trying something different, like you should, because your stories are funny under certain circumstances. After it became a ritual for us: I would read and we would both laugh. But my intentions are for you to--" She didn't finish. I had thrown the coffee mug at her head with all of my strength. It missed by one inch, maybe two, and it shattered against the wood paneling of the doorway. A shard must have ricocheted into Esme's cheek; for, when she looked up with a smugness and pride, that statement that is now etched on my cell wall, there was a thin line of blood running down and dripping methodically from her chin into her cupped hand. As I turned to leave I noticed that the line of blood suddenly altered on Esme's face as the corners of her mouth upturned into a smile. Esme and I were both fifteen when we met. That night was the last time I saw her, and I was thirty-three years old. * * * I left her house and started across the old toll bridge, making my way back to town. Objects flashed white with rage as I walked, flashing with the headlights of passing cars. My mind raced. I thought of my first encounter with Esme, and why she had approached me under the cedars in back of Mr. Lyon's lawn. I was fifteen, letting my lawn mower cool in the shade of mid-day, and was eating a sandwich when she approached. "Do you know that every time I've seen you cuttin' grass, you've always been talkin' to yourself while you're doing it?" I ignored her. "Are you crazy?" she said. I shook my head. "What are you talkin' about?" "Nothing." "Well, then you are crazy. You've got to worry about people who do things for no reason. My name's Esme." "I know. We have English together." She didn't respond. Instead, and since we were alone under the trees, she pulled a pistol from the bag around her shoulder and placed it in her lap. I stopped chewing my sandwich and wondered what she would do next. "See that sign on the fence post," she said. I looked at the opposite side of Mr. Lyon's yard, about fifty feet uphill from where we were seated. As soon as I located the sign, Esme blasted three shots through its direct center. Then, again without a word, she replaced the pistol and walked away through the smoke of gunpowder, back in the direction she had come. * * * The nearby blast of a horn brought me back to the bridge. I looked in time to see a car swerve around Mr. Paull, who was drunk and staggering in the middle of the lane, across the bridge in my direction. The swerving car was full of teenagers who screamed at Mr. Paull, throwing a few empty Budweiser cans as they peeled off. I turned around to look at Esme's house again, wondering if she was still bleeding from her cheek; the light was still on. I turned away and looked, instead, over the bridge, down into the slightly dried and shallow creek running one hundred feet below. I spit, then threw an empty beer bottle which was lying in the gravel of the shoulder nearby, and waited for the sound of splintering glass. It didn't come. As I turned again to continue walking, I saw Mr. Paull on his back lying over the yellow traffic lines of the bridge, some twenty feet away. Approaching, the smell of alcohol mixed with a rancid musky wetness, and it made my cheeks salivate with vomit. I got on one knee and peered at his long oval face blotched out in reds and whites, purple veins extending in strands from the central hollowness of his old cheeks. Not wanting to put up with this bullshit tonight, I back-handed Mr. Paull's face. "Get up!" I yelled. "You get up!" His eyes suddenly opened and turned on me. Just as quickly I felt Mr. Paull's drunken grasp around my neck. With his teeth clenched and grating together, he made out sparse words, but spit with fury while saying them, never letting go or loosening. He was writhing. "Fuuck," he gasped in short breaths. "Ffuck. You fuck. Y-you ffuck." I had his old, drunken body up and was trying to pry free, but he held. If he didn't have my neck, he grabbed for something else and held it. He was frantic and rasping, spitting in my face and clawing. I managed one arm free, brought it back, then launched my fist straight into Mr. Paull’s face. Again, I hit him. His eyes never blinked. The only change in Mr. Paull was that he now spit blood as he rasped. I saw white as I hit him. There were no cars passing on the bridge as we struggled, but I saw white flashes, and I continued to hit Mr. Paull’s face; blood now sopped from his chin and soaked his shirt, adding a new smell to his stench. I calmed after a few minutes, not punching as much. Mr. Paull still held me, by the collar of my shirt at that point; however, his intensity had lagged off. He no longer tried to speak, but mumbled in drawn out "mmmm's" that made blood bubble from his mouth. I gave a last and quick push with my arms to throw him down. He left my arms easily, and was gone. * * * There's a big silence that surrounds me. Mr. Paull fell one hundred feet and didn't make a sound; that's the kind of silence that surrounds me. I stayed on the bridge that night. I could see Esme's window with the light still on, and I stared at that yellow-orange glow against the blackness. Somewhere around morning I thought I saw her face appear there, in the window.