The problem was, she was starting to feel textures when she was awake.  Not all the time, and not with everyone, but with certain people, definitely.  Sitting in church last Sunday, listening to the pastor's voice, Clemmie was overwhelmed by the feeling that smooth cool silk sheets were being dragged over her skin.  This man's voice, his words, as they flowed out, she could feel what kind of person he was; feel his intentions and his emotions.  He was kind; benevolent.  The texture soothed her like a rapture, but it was too intense.  She had to get up and leave.   

    It happened with other people too.  The old man who lived two doors down felt like warm flannel, like protection.  He had always been kind to her.  Other's were rough burlap, cruel sandpaper, sticky loneliness.  Around sunset on Thursday, Clemmie was leaning on the railing of a seawall, staring out at the cold waves.  There wasn't anybody out there.  If she faced that way she could think more clearly.  A stern voice behind her, "Are you alright miss?"  She looked around to see the officer in his patrol car.  As she did, she felt his texture.  He was a million hot razor blades exploding.  This man lived to hurt.  She felt him ripping at her own fabric that she didn't even realize she had.  He was going to shred her apart.  "miss?" The officer said, stepping out of his car.  Clemmie started running.

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