Bentley Little - Dominion

He didn't understand it. He'd talked to several of his friends who were buyers for some of the area's better restaurants, and they too had started carrying Daneam wines. Two of them had even elevated the vineyard's products to "house wine" status.

All within the past week.

It was crazy.

A bearded, burly man wearing ripped jeans and a Chicago Cubs T-shirt walked into the store, jingling the bells over the door. He strode directly up to the counter. "You have any Daneam wines?" he asked.

Nick shook his head. "Sorry, just sold the last one."

The man slammed his fist down on the counter. "Shit!"

"You might try Liquor Barn over on Lincoln."

"I just came from there, asshole." He glanced around the store. "You sure you don't have some hidden in the back?"

"No. Sorry."

"Bullshit! I'm going to check myself."

"No, you're not." Nick reached under the counter until his fingers touched the handgun hidden there. "You're going to leave. Right now."

"Who says so?"

"I say so." Nick looked hard into the man's eyes, trying to stare him down, hoping he wouldn't have to pull out the gun and threaten the man with it.

"Fuck," the man said, shaking his head. He knocked over a small display of Chapstick products and pushed open the front door, causing the bells to ring crazily as he stormed out of the store.

Nick relaxed, able to breathe again, but he did not take his hand away from the handgun until he saw the man cross the street and disappear from view. He stood there for a moment, uncertain, then walked around the edge of the counter, locked the front door, and flipped the sign in the window from Open to Closed. The store wasn't scheduled to close for another half hour, but he didn't feel like remaining open any longer.

There wasn't any point to it.

He was all out of Daneam wines.

And he had the feeling that the customers who came in tonight weren't going to be asking for anything else.

Dion awoke, robbing his eyes, stretching. The blanket on top of him seemed heavy, and he kicked it off, sitting up. Outside the sun was out, light streaming through the window in pillars roughly the shape of the wood-bordered panes, but the atmosphere felt dark, oppressive. He had never been claustrophobic, but that was how he felt now. Everything seemed close, confining, as though both his room and the world outside were pressing in on him. Even his underwear felt unnaturally restrictive, the cotton much too tight against his skin. He peeled off his T-shirt, peeled off his shorts, but the feeling persisted.

He stood up. His body felt small. It was a strange thing to think, but it was the only way to describe the sensation. He had certainly not shrunk during the night, but his body seemed somehow compacted, as though his being was too large for its physical form.

No, it was not as if his body had shrunk. It was as if, inside, he had grown.

But that made no sense. Why would he even think of something like that?

He'd had dreams. All night. A lot of them. And though he could remember only fragmented images, he was filled with the certainty that the dreams had been all of a piece, that they had been not only related but interconnected, like individual episodes of a serial.

That frightened him for some reason.

Just as frightening were the images that had remained with him: the head of Penelope's Mother Margaret, grinning, impaled on his enormous erection as he paraded before a huge, orgiastic audience in an outdoor amphitheater; a line of ants on the dirt suddenly growing, changing, metamorphosing into men who bowed before him and promised their undying fealty; dead women swimming in a black lake, their faces blank and lifeless but their legs kicking, their arms paddling; Mr. Holbrook, shirtless, pushing a boulder up the side of an incline in a dark cavern;

three beautiful nude women standing on top of a high cliff, singing, as men on the flat ground below the cliff ran crazily forward, smashing their heads into the rock.

He wasn't sure why the dreams had frightened him so, but they had, disturbing him in a way that seemed almost more real than real life.

What was most disturbing, though, was that there was an element of anticipation in the fear. Despite the fact that he was awake and the dreams were over, the unpleasant feelings lingered, and they were not fading residual reactions to something that he had experienced but growing expectant feelings of dread for something that had not yet happened.

He walked into He bathroom, looked at himself in the mirror.

Perhaps he was psychic.

That was a scary thought He took a quick shower, and once again had the sensation that his body no longer fit him.

He pushed that craziness out of his mind.

He hadn't told his mom that he was going out with Penelope today, and after he showered, shaved, dressed, and walked out to the kitchen to grab something to eat, she asked him if he'd mow the lawn this morning.

He told her then that he was planning to go put, and to his surprise she paused a moment before giving her approval. He'd expected her to be understanding, accommodating, completely supportive. She'd seemed excited for him until now, happy that he was finally dating, and even this slight hesitation put him on the defensive. His mom hadn't attacked Penelope, but anything less than total backing smacked of criticism, and he felt immediately resentful. Hell, his mom hadn't even met Penelope.

What was she doing passing judgment?

Maybe she should meet Penelope.

Maybe.

He'd think about that later.

He ate a quick breakfast of toast and cocoa and borrowed ten dollars from his mom, promising to pay her back.

"Pay me back?" she said. "How?"

"When I get a job."

"Are you planning to get a job?"

He grinned. "No. But when I do, you'll be the first person I'll reimburse."

She tossed the car keys at him. "Get out of here."

He was lucky. The car's tank was full, so he didn't have to waste any money buying gas. He hadn't thought of that before. If he had, he would've borrowed twenty dollars.

He backed out of the driveway and pulled' onto the street. He glanced east toward the hill as he drove, and though the sight of the hill had unnerved him in the past, there seemed something familiar and comforting about it now, and he could not remember what had so disturbed him about the hill before.

Although it was only quarter to ten when he pulled up in front of the winery gates, Penelope was already waiting for him, sitting on a bench next to the driveway entrance. He was glad that she was alone, that he would not have to go up to the house and see her mothers. He didn't feel up to that this morning.

She stood when she saw him, and got in the passenger side when he reached over and unlocked the door. "Hi," she said.

"Hi."

They were shy with each other, the intimacy they'd shared on the phone, in the nighttime privacy of their own rooms, making them self-conscious in the rational light of day. Dion was embarrassed as he thought of the way he'd played with himself while talking to her, but he also found himself becoming aroused again.

Would they do it tonight!

He didn't know, but the possibility both scared and excited him.

Penelope reached into her purse, pulled out a newspaper article she'd clipped. "The fair's on Elm, outside of town. You know where that is?"

He shook his head.

"Go down to the next street and turn left. I'll tell you where to go."

"Okay."

They were silent after that, neither sure of what to say or how to act.

Dion wanted to turn on the radio, but he was aware that that would only draw attention to the silence, and he kept both hands on the wheel.

He cleared his throat. "What kind of fair is this? A Lion's fair?"

"No. It's, like, a festival, a psychic festival. They have fortune tellers and tarot readers, stuff like that."