Lorelei

She was everybody's sweetheart—but not every man's at once!
Seven days stranded on Europa. Seven days without hope. The courage that had sustained me, like the numbness after a fatal blow, was beginning to slip away. All that seventh day my nerves balanced on a thin jagged edge. And that night the anamorph visited me in my bubble cubicle.
I caught the sheathed rustle of a crinoline skirt and a scent of Peri fragrance, and I knew she had come. Stubbornly I kept my face averted, and tried my best not to think of her. If I did I was lost. My fingers dug into the sponge fabric beneath me until they ached. I sucked breath deep into my lungs and held it.
I wanted no visitors. But that of course was why she had come. She had a way of divining who needed her most, the one whose morale was nearest breaking.
Poor Bill, she murmured. She knelt beside me. I felt her forehead press against my temple and a tear—from eyes which I knew would now be a clear candid blue, deep in the shadows, appearing almost black—traced a salty path down my cheek.
The wall of my resistance broke. I reached up impulsively and pulled her to me. She was all soft, yielding femininity, live and warm and vibrant, the antidote to the raw need that was like a bleeding wound deep within.
Still I tried to resist. I summoned my last dregs of resistance and pushed her roughly from me. I opened my eyes, deliberately keeping my mind locked against her.
She swayed back at my shove.
I saw that her features had not yet set into the mold she had probed from my mind. Her head was round and shapeless, with doughy white skin and the characterless face of a baby. The auburn mat on her head was loose and coarse, with a consistency that was hair and yet not hair; her body was too thin, too rigid, too stringy.
Yet she was Lois. Sweet, gentle, loving Lois, the bride I had left behind on Earth, the girl I would never see again. Lois.
My breath came out in a ragged sigh of surrender, and my mind opened to her unconditionally.