Paul cut into the cannelloni with the side of his fork and blew on it before putting it into his mouth. “This is not bad.”
Charlotte smiled as she went to the fridge again. “All I want is for you to be happy,” she said. She scowled at the second bottle she had pulled out. “A screw top. Is that too down market?”
“Seriously?” he said. “For me, who doesn’t know a Chablis from a chardonnay?”
“Yeah, and really, the more you drink, what does it matter?”
She opened the bottle, set it on the island at the ready. Paul went through his second glass in half a dozen gulps. The moment his glass was empty, Charlotte refilled it.
“Do you forgive me?” she asked.
“For?”
“Talking to Hailey and Dr. White.”
He nodded. “I do.”
“If the roles were reversed, wouldn’t you have done the same thing?”
Paul thought about that. “I guess I would have.” He had polished off the dinner and pushed the plate away from him.
“Are you wondering what’s for dessert?” Charlotte asked.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m good.”
“You should reconsider,” she said, setting down her glass, coming around the island, turning his head to face her, and putting her mouth on his.
Paul felt himself instantly responding. He slid off the stool, put his arms around Charlotte, and pulled her in to him, their lips parting. She slid her tongue into his mouth as he cupped his hands on her buttocks.
Charlotte wedged a hand down between them, felt his hardness beneath his jeans. She pulled back slightly, creating enough space between them that she could undo his belt and the button at the top of his zipper. As his jeans began to fall, allowing her to slip her hand into his shorts, Paul freed her blouse from her pants and ran his hands over her bare skin, heading toward her back and the clasp of her bra.
“Are you going to take me here on the island?” she whispered.
“If it were a desert island, maybe,” Paul said. “But I think a bed might be more comfortable than granite.”
“Well, Romeo, if we’re moving this party to the bedroom, you better pull up your pants so you don’t trip on the stairs.”
“Wise advice.”
“Turn off the lights on the way up. And bring that bottle.”
_________________
WHEN THEY WERE DONE, PAUL SLIPPED NAKED OUT OF THE BED, STAG-gered into the bathroom long enough to take a piss, guided by the moonlight filtering through the window blinds. He flopped back down on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Charlotte, naked and exposed with the covers down around her ankles, had barely moved since they finished making love. The second wine bottle and two glasses all sat empty on her bedside table.
“Whoa,” she said quietly.
“No kidding,” Paul said, reaching his hand out across the sheet and touching his fingers lightly on her arm. “You know, I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“Welcome to the club.”
“What I mean is, four glasses of wine—”
“It was five.”
“Whatever. I’m feelin’ it.”
“Like I said, welcome to the club.”
Paul turned onto his side and shifted closer to Charlotte. She found the energy to roll onto her side, too, so that he could tuck in behind her, spoon-style.
“Covers,” she said.
Paul reached down for the comforter and dragged it up over them. He put his arm around Charlotte, caressing her breasts, and put his head deep into his pillow.
Within seconds, he was snoring.
_________________
HE WAS DREAMING, PERHAPS NOT SURPRISINGLY, ABOUT NEEDING TO go to the bathroom. As he slowly started to come awake, opening his eyes briefly, he thought that killing off a couple of bottles of wine at bedtime will do that to you.
Paul tried to ignore the urgent message from his bladder and closed his eyes again. The two of them had barely moved. Paul was still tucked up against Charlotte, his arm resting over her hip.
He could hear her breathing softly.
He almost drifted back into sleep, but he was being forced to face the inevitability of his situation. He was going to have to get up. The question was whether he could disentangle himself from Charlotte without waking her.
First, he gently raised his arm from her hip and let the comforter settle back onto her. Then he slowly edged his body toward his side of the bed, trying to keep the comforter from dragging across Charlotte.
At the same time, he turned himself over so that his back was to hers, and he was facing the wall beyond his side of the bed.
The room was dark, and the moon had shifted in the intervening hours, so there was almost no light slipping through the blinds.
He wondered what time it was. He was worried it might be four or five in the morning. He did not want it to be that close to daybreak. He was weary, and hoping for several more hours of sleep once he was back under the covers. One or two o’clock, even three, would suit him just fine.
The clock radio on his bedside table was showing no display.
That led Paul to wonder if the power was off. If it had gone out, and come back on, the clock would be flashing “12:00.” But right now, there was nothing. It struck him as an odd time for the electrical grid to collapse. There were no high winds, no storm of any kind.
But hang on.
There was a discernible glow coming from the direction of the clock radio. As if the display were on, but at a tenth of its usual illumination.
Lying on his stomach, he extended his left arm, reaching for the clock.
His hand hit something.
It was as though he’d bumped into an invisible wall.
He felt around. Something cold and metallic sat on the bedside table between him and the clock radio. He gave it a slight push, but it did not budge. His fingers scrabbled across the object. One side was smooth, but when his fingers worked around it, he felt countless round pads that recessed slightly at his touch.
Paul felt a chill run from his scalp to his toes.
No longer worrying about disturbing Charlotte, he swung his legs out of the bed and fumbled in the dark under the shade of the bedside lamp, his fingers struggling to find the switch.
He found it, turned the lamp on.
Paul screamed.
Still screaming, he slid off the side of the bed and hit the floor on his back. His scream had morphed into actual words.
“No no no no!”
Charlotte sat bolt upright in bed, throwing back the covers. “Paul?” She spun around, expecting to see him next to her but seeing only his head above the edge of the bed.
She saw the look of horror on his face, then followed his gaze.
And then she screamed, too.
The typewriter sat there on the bedside table, positioned so that it was facing the bed. Charlotte found three words: “Oh my God!”
And then the room went silent as the two of them stared at the hunk of black metal.
“Paul,” Charlotte whispered.
He did not respond. He did not look at her.
“Paul,” she said again.
Slowly, he focused on her. His eyes were wide with shock.
“Paul, there’s paper in it.”
It was true. A piece of paper was rolled into the machine. There were two words of type on it.
Slowly, Paul got to his knees, then stood and approached the typewriter, as though it were a coiled snake ready to strike.
Without touching it, he peered over the machine to read the message that had been left on the single sheet.
It read:
We’re back.
Forty-Two
Paul, naked and trembling, took a step back from the typewriter and said, “This is not happening. This is not fucking happening!”
Charlotte was in the middle of the bed, crouched on her knees, staring disbelievingly at the antique writing machine. “Paul, how did . . . how is this possible?”
He turned at her and shouted, “I don’t know! This can’t be happening. This has to be a nightmare. I have to wake up. I have to wake up. This can’t be real!” He put his palms to his temples, as though posing for Edvard Munch’s The Scream.
“I was asleep,” he said. “I was right here. Not two feet away. How could this happen? How did it get in here? It can’t be here. It isn’t here.”
“Paul, Paul, listen to me. Paul?”
He looked at her, his eyes wide. “What?”