Low men in yellow coats by Stephen King

Steam was drifting out of the shower. B.B. raised herself on her bare painted toes and opened her towel, turning it into brief wings before letting it fall. And Bobby saw it wasn’t Brigitte Bardot at all. It was Carol Gerber. You’d have to be brave to let people look at you with nothing on but a towel, she had said, and now she had let even the towel fall away. He was seeing her as she would look eight or ten years from now.

Bobby looked at her, helpless to look away, helpless in love, lost in the smells of her soap and her perfume, the sound of her radio (Freddy Cannon had given way to The Platters —

heavenly shades of night are falling]., the sight of her small painted toenails. His heart spun as a top did, with its lines rising and disappearing into other worlds. Other worlds than this.

The taxi began creeping forward. The four-door purple horror parked next to the restaurant (parked in a loading zone, Bobby saw, but what did they care?) began to slide to the rear. The cab jolted to a stop again and the driver cursed mildly as a trolley rushed clang-a-lang through Puritan Square. The low DeSoto was behind them now, but reflections from its chrome filled the cab with erratic dancing minnows of light. And suddenly Bobby felt a savage itching attack the backs of his eyeballs. This was followed by a fall of twisting black threads across his field of vision. He was able to hold onto Carol, but he now seemed to be looking at her through a field of interference.

They sense us … or they sense something. Please God, get us out of here. Please get us out.

The cabbie saw a hole in the traffic and squirted through it. A moment later they were

rolling up Asher Avenue at a good pace. That itching sensation behind Bobby’s eyes began to recede. The black threads across his field of interior vision cleared away, and when they did he saw that the naked girl wasn’t Carol at all (not anymore, at least), not even Brigitte Bardot, but only the calendar-girl from The Corner Pocket, stripped mother-naked by Bobby’s imagination. The music from her radio was gone. The smells of soap and perfume were gone.

The life had gone out of her; she was just a . . . a . . .

‘She’s just a picture painted on a brick wall,’ Bobby said. He sat up.

‘Say what, kid?’ the driver asked, and snapped off the radio. The game was over. Mel Alien was selling cigarettes.

‘Nothing,’ Bobby said.

‘Guess youse dozed off, huh? Slow traffic, hot day . . . they’ll do it every time, just like Hatlo says. Looks like your pal’s still out.’

‘No,’ Ted said, straightening. ‘The doctor is in.’ He stretched his back and winced when it crackled. ‘I did doze a little, though.’ He glanced out the back window, but the William Penn Grille was out of sight now. ‘The Yankees won, I suppose?’

‘Gahdam Injuns, they roont em,’ the cabbie said, and laughed. ‘Don’t see how youse could sleep with the Yankees playing.’

They turned onto Broad Street; two minutes later the cab pulled up in front of 149. Bobby looked at it as if expecting to see a different color paint or perhaps an added wing. He felt like he’d been gone ten years. In a way he supposed he had been — hadn’t he seen Carol Gerber all grown up?

I’m going to marry her, Bobby decided as he got out of the cab. Over on Colony Street, Mrs O’Hara’s dog barked on and on, as if denying this and all human aspirations: roop-roop, roop-roop-roop.

Ted bent down to the driver’s-side window with his wallet in his hand. He plucked out two singles, considered, then added a third. ‘Keep the change.’

‘You’re a gent,’ the cabbie said.

‘He’s a shooter,” Bobby corrected, and grinned as the cab pulled away.

‘Let’s get inside,’ Ted said. ‘It’s not safe for me to be out here.’

They went up the porch steps and Bobby used his key to open the door to the foyer. He kept thinking about that weird itching behind his eyes, and the black threads. The threads had been particularly horrible, as if he’d been on the verge of going blind. ‘Did they see us, Ted?