Darkly dreaming Dexter   ::   Lindsay Jeffry P.

– floating above this perfect tight work space-my hand in perfect unison with that other hand goesup and arches back for a perfect cut-

I've read the books. Perhaps because I'll never be one, humans are interesting to me. So I know all the symbolism: Floating is a form of flying, meaning sex. And the knife-

Ja, Herr Doktor. The knife ist eine mother, ja?

Snap out of it, Dexter.

Just a stupid, meaningless dream.

The telephone rang and I almost jumped out of my skin.

“How about breakfast at Wolfie's?” said Deborah. “My treat.”

“It's Saturday morning,” I said. “We'll never get in.”

“I'll get there first and get a table,” she said. “Meet you there.”

Wolfie's Deli on Miami Beach was a Miami tradition. And because the Morgans are a Miami family, we had been eating there all our lives on those special deli occasions. Why Deborah thought today might be one of those occasions was beyond me, but I was sure she would enlighten me in time. So I took a shower, dressed in my casual Saturday best, and drove out to the Beach. Traffic was light over the new improved MacArthur Causeway, and soon I was politely elbowing my way through the teeming throngs at Wolfie's.

True to her word, Deborah had corralled a corner table. She was chatting with an ancient waitress, a woman even I recognized. “Rose, my love,” I said, bending to kiss her wrinkled cheek. She turned her permanent scowl on me. “My wild Irish Rose.”

“Dexter,” she rasped, with her thick middle-European accent. “Knock off with the kiss, like some faigelah.”

“Faigelah. Is that Irish for fiancé?” I asked her, and slid into my chair.

“Feh,” she said, trudging off to the kitchen and shaking her head at me.

“I think she likes me,” I told Deborah.

“Somebody should,” said Deb. “How was your date last night?”

“A lot of fun,” I said. “You should try it sometime.”

“Feh,” said Deborah.

“You can't spend all your nights standing on Tamiami Trail in your underwear, Deb. You need a life.”

“I need a transfer,” she snarled at me. “To Homicide Bureau. Then we'll see about a life.”

“I understand,” I said. “It would certainly sound better for the kids to say Mommie's in homicide.”

“Dexter, for Christ's sake,” she said.

“It's a natural thought, Deborah. Nephews and nieces. More little Morgans. Why not?”

She blew out a long breath. “I thought Mom was dead,” she said.

“I'm channeling her,” I said. “Through the cherry Danish.