Constance Zimmer

In public, she wore head wraps so tight they gave her headaches.

Nevertheless, at some point, the hissing caused people to stop what they were doing and squint all around in search of the sound that happened to be coming from her scalp.

It was awkward and also dangerous, for she was being hunted.

Her assassin was said to be handsome and strong, armed with the sickle of Zeus and the winged sandals of Hermes, but so stupid he couldn't pour piss out of a boot.

That she'd eluded him this long seemed a testament to his stupidity.

Her last refuge had been a northern city.

The city had provided her with the anonymity she desired, but the numerous people provided opportunities for numerous mistakes.

Every face was a face she might turn to stone the second she was pushed from behind at the deli counter or cut off on the expressway.

Her ire would rise and the snakes would writhe, blood cool and lovely against her skull.

To manage her anger, she had a mantra.

I am not a monster.

After the incident with the plumber, she wasn't so sure.

One minute he was demanding twice his quoted fee, the next minute he was statuary.

She was left heaving in the aftermath, dizzied, horrified, as if the crime had been committed by someone else.

There was nothing to do but jump in her car and follow the roadmap to a southern hamlet where there would be fewer faces.

and everything was fine for a while.

In a corner of her yard, she grew her own tomatoes, string beans, and squash, and had the rest of her groceries delivered by one of the young store clerks.

It was quiet out there, deathly quiet.

She'd heard that people slept more soundly in the country, but the isolation made her wake up in a sweat, risen by dreams of sickles slicing her throat.

At such times, the snakes massaged her scalp,