Krystle Carrington, in soft-focus dream time, slowly lifts her hair from her pillow.
Her eyelids snap open.
Light furls in through the blinds as she descends the white, spiralling staircase in her ivory colored nightgown; one slipper after the other; her towering, great tent of hair not moving, not an inch.
She is alert. Primed, somewhere in her gut, for another ferocious, nocturnal encounter.
Sleepily, Krystle fumbles; switches on the chandelier, glancing quickly about her in the opal landing mirror, trying worriedly to make sense of what is going on, as Blake, finally waking up from a dream about oil, and finding his wife absent, intuitively follows traces of her luminous, phantasmic, skin-oozing scent down the ivoried, cascading staircases towards her.
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