options open. Her grades were surprisingly good. Willow's own record at
Stanford was ordinary. The courses were all so canned, pre-digested,
just right for her perfect brother who was a year behind her and
practically in law school already. Willow did the minimum, but she
wasn't into it. There had to be more to life than the accepted opinion
about George Eliot. Christ, you were lucky if you got to read James
Joyce, never mind Henry Miller. Willow adored Henry Miller.

"All right, I am conventional," Amber said, breaking into Willow's
reverie. "And I'm going to have a damned good time while I'm at it."
Willow poured the last of the coffee into their cups. Amber wasn't
really awake, Willow knew. At ten or eleven, her eyes would open the
rest of the way, slightly startled, slightly pleased to have survived
the transition. Amber's eyes were a dark Mediterranean brown. If I were
gay, Willow thought, I could go for Amber. She's so fierce underneath
that easy chameleon surface; she knows what she wants, and she gets it.
Amber stretched and went back into her room, emerging when Art honked
the horn in his pickup. Willow waved at Art and watched Amber skip into
the truck, elaborately casual, a barnwarmer's dream. Willow punched
down the bread and left it to rise again. Amber would get fucked
tonight, she thought. Or not. But she'd have the choice.

Willow washed the few dishes and dried them as she tried to think about
sex. It was becoming a more persistent question or urge or need, these
days. She wandered out to the porch, kicked off her sandals, and lay on
the bed. She imagined Art standing by the door. He melted down and
changed into Patrick. "Oh, to hell with it," she said and took off her
pants. She ran her fingers lightly back and forth between her legs
while Patrick watched. She drew up her knees. She let them fall open.
"What are you looking at?" she teased Patrick in a low voice.

"I'm a romantic," he said earnestly.

"Well, if you're a romantic, why aren't you naked with a rose in your
teeth?" Patrick left, as she continued to play with herself. In a
moment, he was back, naked, a long stemmed red rose held carefully
between his teeth. He was nicely muscled with a flat stomach. She
motioned him closer with one hand. He approached slowly, and she held
out her hand for the rose. He gave it to her. "Good, Patrick," she said
and struck him lightly across the stomach. Thorns left three tiny drops
of blood. He gasped and