Bobby used to say that if I put a coin under my pillow, I would dream about my heart's desire. That was easy. A real cinch. I didn't need a coin for that. I knew what that was. He was sleeping next to me. Michael. That was what I wanted. But even though I already had my wish, I still slipped a coin under my pillow just like I did every night since I was a kid. And once I did, my body sunk into the mattress, my head lolling deep. My lids turned heavy and I could sleep. Sleep and dream, the curtain drawing over today and the movies beginning somewhere inside my mind ... The reels were rolling.

And now I was dreaming about Michael. I was always dreaming about him. Him and me together in our house, where the smells of our dinner had drifted up the stairs. He was leaning against the bedroom doorway. His tie was gone, the top button of his shirt undone, his sleeves still rolled up from helping our kids bathe. His hair was all rumpled after a long day, a damp curl tucked behind one ear. And now he was smiling quietly while he watched me tuck our boy and girl into bed.

They tossed side to side under the covers as if sleep was a monster trying to catch them and they were rolling away from its sticky grip. "Mommy, Mommy, tell us a story."

"Which story? The one about the sleeping princess? Or the one where the monster never ever brushes his teeth, and they all fall out? Every single tooth?" I pretended I didn't know, but it was the same story they asked for every night. It never changed.

"Ye-e-e-ech. No, no, no. Nuh uh. The one about the smart kids. The kids who trick the mean giant," they demanded.

And so I sat next to our kids, the mattress giving under me with a hiss. Smiling down on them, I touched their little heads: one brownish red, one blond. Their hair felt soft as a cloud and they smelled sweet and clean, all soap and innocence. I thumbed off some dried toothpaste from my son's cheek. Then I settled back with a sigh, one hand gently resting on each of them, and I began telling them the story about brave Nikita and Michael and how they went deep, deep into the giant's cave where they found the stolen treasure: the three magic apples. "Quickly they took them back, slipping the treasure inside their knapsacks. They were almost dancing with glee. Now the magic apples could be returned to their village so that everyone would be whole and happy again. Everything would be as it what once. All the stories and music would come back. Everything would be remembered. Michael and brave Nikita could hardly wait. They ran and ran through the caves.

"But before they could get away with the treasure, the giant caught them. Fee fi fo fum. He scooped Michael up with a hand the size of a wagon. He dangled brave Nikita by her foot up, up in the air. He held her over his mouth and opened wide. He was going to eat them right then and there. But brave Nikita quickly said they would taste so much better if they were cooked first. And the giant could not decide which kind of tasty yummy kiddie treats he liked the best. Barbecued kids. French-fried kids with lots of ketchup. Chocolate-covered kids. And before he could start cooking them, brave Nikita tricked the giant into using his magic. He turned himself into a fly, and Nikita swatted him. Pow. Dead in one blow.

"Now that the giant was gone, Michael and brave Nikita were happy but they were far from safe. It wasn't over yet, because they were still a long, long way from home. So they followed the trail of crumbs through the twists and turns in the deep dark cave. Up, down. Careful, quiet, so that no one would find them and bring them back. They were tired and cold and hungry, but they did not stop. They couldn't. They kept going on and on, and at last they came to the giant ladder. They climbed and climbed until they finally reached the world outside. And when they stepped out, they saw the sun and the stars for the first time in months. They could hardly believe how clean and sweet the air smelled. It smelled like freedom. Freedom together. And so even though Michael and brave Nikita were very small, they were still smart and strong and they stuck to it. They overcame the giant and saved their village. And of course, they lived happily ever after.

And that is all, my ë˙ë˙. There it ends, and there it begins. From my mouth to the wind, the wind to your ear. We tell the stories and we listen. Listen and remember, remember and continue. Remember, ë˙ë˙. Remember it always. Always," I whispered, stroking their smooth cheeks, listening to their breaths grow longer, then gradually deepen into sighs. When I was sure they were finally asleep, I leaned down to kiss them. Then I got up from their beds and walked to the door. At the last moment, I turned, stopped. Michael stood behind me, his arms wrapped around my waist. He murmured his love while we stayed there at the threshold and watched them sleep, all curled in their beds, their faces smooth and untroubled.

"They are safe," I thought. "Safe at last." Then I followed Michael into the hallway. I closed the door behind us. It latched. Click.

Cli-i-i-ick. A moment later, I jolted out of my dream like I'd just fallen out of plane on to the goddam ground. I landed sudden and hard. It was almost painful. I felt the damp sheets twisted under my back; and Michael next to me. My love - all warm. Solid and real. And noisy. Noisy as hell.

Jeez. What a noise. Everyone thought Michael was Mister Silence, but he could be loud, very loud. Right now, he sounded like an outboard motor, steadily roaring into my ear. I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. A second later, they popped open again. I couldn't sleep. Not with that racket going on. Maybe Michael look delicious in bed, but the man could snore. Seriously snore. It was the only thing that drowned out the growling in my stomach. I was still hungry even though I'd already eaten my K-rations. Maybe he had some left.

Quietly I slipped out of bed and padded across the floor to where we'd tossed his pants. I rummaged through his pockets, and found the standard equipment: gun, extra ammo, compass, a handy incendiary device. Checked the other side. One cow-turd K-ration ... oh, and a nylon pouch no one else had been issued. What the hell? I opened it carefully, and smelled something familiar. Something like strawberries. Powder covered my finger. I tasted the tip. Sugar. Yum. Candy! Better than K-rations any day. My stomach growled even louder.

My mouth watered as I plucked one out. I opened wide. I was just about to put it in when Michael stopped mid-snore. "Fraises Haribo," he mumbled.

"What?" Startled, I jerked guiltily. Dropped the bag on the ground. The candy rolled on to the floor and under a chair. Darn it.

"Fraises Haribo. My favorite. When I was a child. It is rude to go through someone's pockets without asking first. Anyone tell you that?"

"Yeah, you just did. So what? It's rude not to share. So there." I stuck my tongue out at him.

"I shared with you. Several times." His eyes looked sleepy, but they still gleamed with male satisfaction. "Come back to bed."

I leaned over and picked up the candy from the ground. Slowly I straightened. "Can I have one? ... Please."

He stared impassively at me for a long time, then finally - just when I was sure he was going to refuse - he surprised me and nodded reluctantly. I climbed into bed, popped a candy in my mouth. It was so sweet it almost made my tooth ache. "Melts right on your tongue. I like them."

Michael did not respond the way I hoped so I held up the bag and jiggled it in front of him. Then I pulled my face into the big wide-eyed look, the one that had never worked on my mom but always eventually worked on Michael.

"Oh, all right," he grumbled at last. "Have another."

"Just one? They're so good. I could get hooked on them."

"I know the feeling." Michael sighed.

Really? Did he mean me? That confession cheered me up. Maybe he did love me after all. I wasn't sure. Sometimes I wondered how important I was to him. He always seemed to be Mister Independent, going from one wife to the next. Besides, everyone was chasing him all the time. Michael, do you want some coffee? Michael, can you check my gun? So obvious. It made me gag. Really. I was sick of it. Sick and worried. I mean, who was I? Just Nikita. That scruff, pretending to be someone I wasn't. Always too tall, walking too big in those stupid tight skirts, always forgetting how to dance. What did Michael see in me? I sure couldn't figure it out. Maybe I was just convenient. Maybe I was the relationship du jour until he found his next Simone. His next real love.

Shit. Now I was bummed out again. Here I was, my hair tangled into clumps, my teeth feeling a little fuzzy. And there he was, looking all sleepily handsome in bed. Michael looked perfect. He always did. Absolutely delicious. I wanted to eat him up, then start all over again. I walked back, and sat cross-legged on the bed. Offered him the bag. We both ate an Haribo. I chewed mine up fast and swallowed. He was still sucking on his. I took another one out. He grabbed my wrist. Shaking his head slightly, he forced me to return it to the bag. I made a face at him. I wondered if I could sneak another one. I thought hard about it, but Michael smiled quietly as if he already knew what I'd been thinking. I guess not. Oh well.

Giving up, I snuggled closer. "Do you remember the first time we kissed?"

"Of course ... Do you?"

"Yeah. We were in Madeline's office."

"We were not."

"We were getting ready for that Bauer mission. And I leaned over and did this ..." I pecked his cheek. His morning beard rasped against my lips.

"No," he said. "It was more like this. Let me remind you." And his face moved a crucial inch so that our breaths met, then our mouths. So warm and soft. Soft like gray mist. A light touch here. Another there. And then I opened. Wider. Accepting. Giving.

"Remember?" he groaned, but I could barely hear him any more. All I could hear was something loud - like the surf - roaring in my ears. Maybe it was blood. Maybe it was passion. But it didn't matter. It didn't matter any more which of us was right, because we were too busy making a brand new memory.

### Moon/La Lune (Michael)

The song lifted and dipped like a lone bird on the wing: soulful, sad, a solitary note floating on the air. One slowly followed the other inside my hotel apartment. The cello music sounded spare and deceptively simple. I liked how it seemed disciplined, not excessive. It suited my mood. It fit me, how others saw me, how I saw myself. Or so I thought until recently.

A few years ago, something had happened. Something like a hurricane barreled into my life, unasked for, tossed everything every which way. The rules of a lifetime had been reduced to shambles as that blonde something left chaos in her wake.

That something named Nikita. Right now, she was rifling through my record collection that was stashed inside the Galileo. Since the mission, we had gone dark. And during the last week, Nikita had searched the whole apartment. Maybe looking for things to entertain herself while I cooked dinner; more likely looking for clues about me. Nikita thought she had been subtle. She was not. She never was. She jammed another LP back on to the shelf. "Michael, I can't find a thing. What a mess. Everyone thinks you're Mister Control, but you're really a slob at heart. The secret you. I never would have guessed."

I slowly stirred the casserole. "Have my own system."

"Yeah? Then your system's encrypted. I can't figure it out. Look at this. Nina Simone right next to Bach's cello concertos."

"Ah. 'B' for Bach or 'C' for cello?"

" 'B' of course." Her easy laughter rumbled all the way through the main room and over the kitchen-island that separated us. Its sound made me feel more hot than the open oven did right now. It was one of the first things I had ever noticed about her, one of my favorite things. Of course there were so many things I loved. Like now. Nikita's head was tilting back so that her neck arched, displaying the sweet ivory skin I longed to taste again. So pale, so perfectly delicious. But now was not the time.

Now we were moving too fast, too soon. Recklessness could destroy everything, and leave us with nothing. We were being watched. I needed to make sure that they saw only what I intended. It was all up to me. My care. This time I would not make the same mistake. Mistakes, I had learned, were irreversible. Irreversible and deadly.

So instead of sampling her, I sipped from the spoon and tasted our dinner. Perfect. Just the right balance between sweet and spice. I replaced the lid on the pot, then slid the rack back into the oven. Shut the door quietly, firmly so that no more heat could escape.

Flip, flap. Another LP jacket hit my floor. Nikita gave a delighted cry, and then ... Krrr. The needle skittered across the vinyl. I was still wincing when she laughed and apologized, "Sorry. Doesn't look like a bad scratch. Can't ever get the hang of using these record players. Used to CD's. Easy in. Out. Quick, you know." She put the other record on the turn-table and set down the stylus with exaggerated care. Glanced over her shoulder, grinned cockily as if to show me that she could do it right this time. The needle swayed, scritch-scratching, until it slipped into the groove, and guitars blasted from the speakers: raucous, wild, a little loud, a lot like her. Then the drums pumped up the volume.

Nikita danced in a circle around the room; her long blonde hair spinning out like a corona radiata, catching the light, filling with it, spilling her light into my darkness, changing my life forever. My Soleil.

"I love this one. Come on, Michael. Come dance." She stopped right in front of me, then gave a little start as if she had just remembered something. She hastily swiped a hand across her mouth, but not before I saw the telltale smear of red sugar across her palm.

Eating my Haribo again. Glancing around the room, I finally found what was left of my favorite candy. The little plastic bag, now open and half-empty, lay on the coffee table. Crumpled up so that I could see only half of its printed slogan Trop Douce ... I had been saving my Haribo for later. I should never have given her a taste a few days ago. Ever since then, she'd been eating her way through my secret stashes. Insatiable brat. I folded my arms, easily hid my aggravation. I'd had so much practice doing that, it was reflex by now. Swallowed a sigh. "How many did you eat this time?"

She danced away from me again. I tried to ignore those twists and little hip wiggles. Very difficult. Nikita shrugged. "I love them. I could gobble all of them up. Every last one."

A long time ago, I had bloodied the nose of a kid at school who had tried stealing my Haribo. I put on my best intimidating stare, the one that made rookies cower, terrorists confess. Nikita only grinned back at me. Complete failure. She was the one, the only one ... Pour l'amour de Dieu. I tried again. Maybe logic this time. "Do not eat more. Spoils your appetite."

"Nothing wrong with my appetite." She stuck out her tongue, which had turned dark pink from the candy. "Not like some older men I know." Nikita giggled as she swayed to the beat, emphatically punctuating the jungle rhythm with her hips. "The package says Trop something. What does that mean?"

"Trop doux pour ętre oublié. Too Sweet ..."

"... to Forget. I like that. I like that a lot. You know, it's funny. You have a sweet tooth ..."

"For some things." I secretly smiled as her dance faltered for a moment. Her hands dropped. Biting her bottom lip, she stared at me.

"You don't seem like someone who indulges." Turning, Nikita examined me from head to toe, and lingered in places that wanted more than just her regard; wanted her breath, her touch, all of her.

I inhaled sharply, tried to leash it back in. "You don't know ... the kids used to call me gros lard. Fatso." Those long-ago taunts had faded over time, but the stinging still remained. I could still feel it somewhere. I could just hide it better now. "They always made fun of me. Never played with me. Always the last one picked for a team."

Her blank look changed to open astonishment. "Then how ...?"

"Control. Hard work."

"Of course. That makes sense. That's the Michael I know. Well, you don't realize it yet, but you'll need my help." The surprised pity melted away from her face as she started dancing again. A shimmy here. A dip and jiggle there. The way she moved made it clearer that certain underclothing was missing now.

Why was Nikita doing this? I did not know whether to curse Cleo or thank her for teaching Nikita so well. Like most things, she had learned too quickly and improved on it. I forced myself not to close my eyes or turn away. Then Nikita would know. She must not know. I had to swallow at least once before I could talk again.

"Listen, Mister Secret Agent Man. You think you're so self-reliant, but you're really not. You need me. You bet you do. More than you know. You need me to eat all your Haribo for you. I gotta remove temptation."

Remove it? She must be joking. She embodied it. She was my biggest temptation of all, and all the discipline in the world could not stop me any longer. There was no stopping either of us. It was like gravity, some law of physics, pre-ordained and unchangeable.

Nikita danced closer, smiled her most beguiling smile - just a little of her teeth showing, eyes lighting with something like hope. That wistful waif expression pulled at me like it always did. "Come on, Michael. Let's do it."

"What?"

"Let's dance."

That wasn't what she meant. I knew it. She knew it. But I pretended otherwise. I cleared my throat, managed to say, "Salad ... Must make the salad." Lame excuse. Silently I groaned. Where were all my smooth moves when I needed them? I felt like a fat schoolboy again, miserably awkward. Uncertain. I glanced around, then returned to her.

Her nose was wrinkling. She scoffed. "Salad? Oh, yuck. Always veggies first with you. You're just like that big guy in Green Eggs and Ham. Fuddy-duddy. All those rules. Forget it. Come on. Try something different. It's dessert that makes life worth living." Then her lips pursed in that unconscious pout, the one that drove me mad without her even knowing it. Or, come to think of it, maybe she did know. Maybe she knew all those things, every little one. Maybe she did them all on purpose: biting her plump bottom lip; wearing that ridiculous backless dress which looked as if a madman had attacked it with a pair of scissors; her peach soap haunting me long after she left a room. She made me realize that Life was possible - mere existence no longer an acceptable option. Every little thing that she did pushed me closer to the edge. God help her if I lost my control. God help us both.

While I was thinking, Nikita looked up at me, her eyes wide and blue as the summer sky. "Please?" she added. She held out her long, bare arms. Her fingers spread. I was done for. Doomed. Signed, sealed, delivered. Resistance was useless. I reached out to her.

Her smile widened. Then a burst of delight suddenly lit her face until she almost seemed to glow. Laughing, Nikita yanked off my oven mitts, and sent them flying somewhere. She pulled me to her, into her dance. As we spun around the room together, the rest of the world seemed to vanish. Section One, everything else could have been light years away. I felt airy, my head filled with bubbles. Tried to concentrate, but could not. Maybe I even smiled back at her.

"Good. This is good for you ..." she approved breathlessly.

We danced on. Something pulsed between us like the music around us. It heated, but some of my common sense gradually returned. I still worried. She'd found the candy. Had she found my mission files about behavior modification? We already used satellites to link with and track operatives. But now they were talking about going the next step: redirecting behavior just like Skinner's experiments. Just the White Papers, they reassured me. Only theoretically possible. Lockheed Martin hadn't developed the instrumentation to do it remotely by satellite yet.

I should be thinking about that, worrying about how to shield Nikita from another impulsive mistake. But all I could think about was how her slim muscles felt under my hands, the way the curve of her shoulder peeked in and out from under her dress. All I could feel was my need hardening as we danced close, then closer. Nikita led me through the next few steps.

What was she doing? Why did I let her? Always the same problem. Right now, during training. Nikita never could nail it. Never could remember. The man led, the woman followed. Maybe she didn't want to remember. Maybe it was time to remind her.

I gripped her, dipped her suddenly. Watched her fall with absolute trust into my arms, trust I did not deserve. Her breasts rapidly rose and fell, their soft warm weight pressing against me, brushing me with their utter temptation, as if begging me, begging me to ... I gripped tighter.

Her pupils dilated, lips parted. "Dancing ... is good for you. Such a little thing. Is that so terrible? So hard for you to do?"

But what was she was really asking me for? I held her closer; feeling her supple body move, feeling a little afraid because watching was no longer enough. Waiting was impossible. Nikita felt that way too - only, she wasn't just asking for a simple dance. She wanted something much more than that.

And that was the problem. The whole problem right there. You see, so did I.

##

Sun/Le Soleil (Nikita)

"That was great. The best I've ever had. Mmmmmmm. We'll have to do it again." Sighing, I sat back in my chair. I dropped my napkin on the table. The casserole had tasted yummy at first, but now it sat like a bomb in my queasy stomach. Tick, tick, tick. Any second now, it would go KaPOW. Yuck. Maybe it was all that candy rattling around in there too, but I'd never admit it to Michael. I couldn't even swipe some of his antacids, damn it. If I did, I'd never live it down after that.

Jeez, he could sure look mean. He could do it in a second, no matter what. Maybe now he was dressed casual in a sweater and jeans, but he could still look as severe as when he wore one of those black suits. You see, it wasn't the clothes. It was that Mister Trainer look: brows drawn together, staring down his nose at me, his silent version of I-told-you-so. Ha! Let him try. Even a session in the White Room wouldn't rip the bellyaching truth out of me. Swallowing hard, I tried to pull another veil over me and hide behind one of those smiles: lower lids, lift lips, no teeth. Innocent but a little flirty. Cleo would have given me a thumbs up, but Michael was an awful tough customer. Wondered if it worked. Couldn't tell. Nuts. I pushed back from the table. "But you know what? You've been cooking all week. Next time, it's my turn to make dinner. Howsabout that?"

"No problem. I do not mind. I like to cook."

Sure. Tell me another lie. Make it a whopper. Go right ahead. I examined his serene face, his steady hand. Michael could be a liar - a perfect liar when he wanted to be. Desperation - not pleasure - made him take over the kitchen. My cooking was a first-strike weapon. Everyone said so. Everyone except Michael, who silently ate my cooking while he chugged enough antacids to be the Maalox poster boy of the year. Poor guy. And he thought it was a secret. What a sacrifice. Straight from the gut. Who said Michael wasn't romantic?

He lifted the wine bottle over my glass. "More?"

I covered my glass with my hand. Shook my head. Michael set down the bottle again and lifted his glass. Over its rim, he looked carefully at me. He seemed to be drinking me in instead of the wine, savoring something secret. Made me feel damned nervy. I got out of my chair and walked away from the table to the television. Turned it on, flipped through the channels. "What about a movie? There's a great one on right now."

But instead of my film, a line of colored bars filled the screen, the speakers broadcasting a low atonal sound. "That's funny." I checked the channel again, then my watch. "This should be it. Cable must be down. Technical difficulties. Or maybe you didn't pay your bill on time. Did you forget? You know, automatic billing is real handy that way."

Michael just lifted his eyebrows. He got up from his chair and walked to the couch. He leaned over, picked up the remote control that was laying there, and clicked off the television again. Then he walked back to the table and started clearing the dishes. Michael picked up a plate and a fork. Carefully he scraped all the leftovers on to another plate.

Okay, okay. So no television. Clean-up before playing. I could take a hint. Shrugging, I returned to the table and started helping. I grabbed a couple of plates and stacked them up high. The stuff wedged between them made them slide around. A fork slipped out, falling to the ground, and a few plates on top began to teeter, but I grabbed them all just in time. Nothing else fell. Ignoring Michael's huff, I just kept holding my stack and walking to the kitchen sink. I dumped them all in. Cranked on the water. While the dishpan filled, I said, "Hey, y'know what's funny? Nobody's contacted us for days. Don't you think we should call in or something?"

"No. Not on standard channels. Phone could be compromised too. I will try an alternate route tomorrow."

I picked up the bottle of dishwashing soap and squirted in a whole bunch. "Maybe something's wrong."

"Maybe this is a gift. Maybe we should take it. Take it and run."

His hushed intensity frightened me a little. "Maybe we should be careful. Maybe this is ..." Oh hell. What was I saying? Maybe he was right. I shouldn't be complaining. Only a dope would complain. This was what I'd wanted for longer than I could remember. Finally we were together. Enjoy it, girl.

Yeah, sure. That was the ticket. Live it up. Play house. After all, you never knew when the next chance might come down the pike. What the hell was wrong with me? I was thinking like some stupid lint-picking profiler, taking everything apart instead of just enjoying what was. Boy, Section was really getting to me. I made a face. And a resolution. No more worries. Nope, not me. Okay-doke. I picked up a sponge and wet it. Then I picked up a plate and started washing. Suds flew everywhere. "Sure, sure. You would know best. Not like I'm in a rush to get back."

"Good," was all Michael said.

It wasn't long before he booted me from the kitchen. I guess he didn't like how I splashed so much water or used up lots of soap. So what? I mean, bubbles were half the fun of it. But I really didn't feel like arguing with him for a change. If Michael wanted to do the work, let him. After that last glower he'd given me, I settled for just sticking my tongue out at him and I went over to the couch. I sat down, then thought better of it. Jumped up again, walked across the room to the large glass doors. The curtains fluttered back as I opened them, and stepped on to a little balcony.

The night was still warm, the sky clear and free from glare. The patio must be on the far side of the building, because I could look out over the soft rolling hills without a hint of the city. It was hidden behind us and no other nearby apartments could look in on us. It was completely private like its owner. Near the edge of the balcony, a short wide telescope stood on a tripod. I tilted my head to read the bold print along its dark blue side. Celestron. Its side was studded with small mirrors.

"Do not touch," said Michael softly from the doorway.

Jeez. I almost jumped. Hadn't heard him. I thought he was still in the kitchen, cleaning up to his goddamn standards. Quickly I put my hands behind my back. I jerked my head towards the telescope. "So what's this? Doing a little old-fashioned surveillance on the neighbors? Don't you get enough snooping at work? Or are you interested in less earthly matters? Like satellites for instance? Hmmmm, like Project Apollo. The sun god. Good name for a ultimate space communications center. What's it got? Let's see. Cable, internet, phone, the whole enchilada. But it's not just a commercial venture, is it? Otherwise, why would we be so interested in it? I bet it's one of ours. Or we're taking it over. Come on, come on. I'm curious. You haven't told me yet. Remote sensing? Looking for hot spots? What's it really for?"

He didn't reply. His lips thinned. Then he folded his arms and walked back into the apartment. I stared at his retreating back. Well, I was used to that. It didn't put me off. No way. Okay, pal. Not this time, not this way. Well, there were other ways to get the information I needed. It wasn't over yet. Not by a long shot.

Somewhere inside the apartment, dinnerware faintly clanked together as I removed the cover from the far end of the telescope. I pointed it at the crescent moon, which still hung high in the night sky. Then I leaned over and peered through the smaller sighting scope, which was piggybacked on top of the telescope. I couldn't see a darn thing. I tried squinting, but it was no use. Still a big black nothing. Exasperated, I looked up again, sighted the moon, and moved the telescope. I was in the middle of adjusting the equipment again when I heard Michael's soft step at the threshold, the clinking of mugs. Yuh oh. Well, it was too late to pretend I hadn't touched his stuff. After all, sometimes he didn't mind. Sometimes he liked it a lot. I managed to hold back a giggle. And by the time I slowly straightened up again, I'd successfully hidden my smile. I turned to him. He looked resigned but not pissed. Phew. I'd lucked out this time. Michael was not exactly a barrel of laughs to begin with, and when he was pissed off, he was not what I would call a whole lot of fun. Kinda the opposite actually, but I'd been working on him and I thought we'd made some progress so far. I was just what he needed. I wondered if he knew how much?

The thought cheered me. Maybe I wasn't such a girl du jour. Maybe I had some purpose after all, and I should make sure he knew it too. Cocking my head, I pointed to the telescope and then up at the sky. "So," I said. "Where the hell is it?"

"Where's what?" Michael was carrying a tray with two mugs and a paper bag that contained my contribution to this meal. He walked on to the balcony. He shouldered the door closed. "What are you looking for?"

"The moon. Can't see a thing. How could I miss seeing something as large as the moon? It's like a whole pizza. Huge. Should hit me right in the face."

"Hope not." Michael set the tray down on a little table. He walked up to me, reached over, his arm brushing against me as he removed a silver mylar filter from the far end. "Sorry. It is set up to see the solar eclipse."

I waited for him to finish explaining, but he only bent over the telescope and adjusted its position. It was well-oiled, and moved smoothly, efficiently just like its owner. Michael straightened up, stepped aside, gesturing for me to look into the eyepiece.

I tried again. There it was. The crescent moon looked more yellow than I'd expected, and lacy gray lines swirled across its slivered face. There was definitely more to it than what I'd first expected. In a lot of ways, it reminded me of the man I was growing to love. I mean, back in the beginning, I used to think Michael was a jerk all the time. Now I only thought he was some of the time. He was definitely improving. Grinning secretly, I felt for the small knob on the side and twisted it. The lines sharpened. "There you go. That's even better. Jeez, you must have really old eyes or something. Do you need glasses? Hey, tell me about the eclipse."

"In a few days. The moon will block out the sun."

"A hundred percent? Total blackout?"

Michael nodded. He turned and picked up the mugs. He handed me one, then took a sip from his own. Leaned one hip against the balcony while he drank. Again he was watching me over the rim of his cup like he'd done during dinner. My body began humming and I didn't think it was the caffeine.

"Mmm." I hid behind my mug. The French Roast was strong and dark, just the way I liked it. Perfect coffee. On a mission or in the kitchen, the man could perform. And in bed, well, it wouldn't be polite to think about performance ratings there. He was off the scale. I couldn't ask for anything more. Didn't want anyone else. I could feel that wanting swell inside me. The pressure was building somewhere deep, and I wanted to give in. Yet I steeled myself against myself. After all, it was too soon. I should wait. I bit my lip. Waiting was always so hard to do, but I wanted to see what he'd do next. I felt shivery thinking about it, and I didn't want him to know yet. I tried for a normal voice, real conversational. "Wow, an eclipse. So you're waiting for one? I didn't know you were interested in astronomy."

"There is a lot you do not know about me."

"Then tell me. I want to know." I waited, but Michael only smiled. His look intensified until my face heated, my cheeks and elsewhere. I didn't know that silence could be so sexy. I hadn't known until I met him. Embarrassing. Damn it. Was that awkwardness? Or desire? The silence stretched out thinner and thinner, turning and twisting like the feelings in my gut. I couldn't take it any more. I think I must have gulped. "Uh ... isn't it dangerous to look directly at the sun?"

"Yes. The sun can blind you. But it is worth the risk. A few precautions, and you can watch the eclipse. The first time you see it ... it changes your life forever."

He lowered himself on to the chaise lounge. Stretched out his long legs, denim rubbing against denim. He leaned back on a pillow. "One of my earliest memories. Watching the eclipse with my grandfather ... I remember waiting with Grandperé in the fields around his home. Provence. Smelled like dust. Dust and lavender. Waited for ... for a long time, it seemed. I was a child then. Bored with waiting. Bored with everything. Then voilŕ!" He paused, his hands around his cup. Slowly he took another sip. He seemed to be savoring it. For a long time, he didn't speak.

I tried to wait. Honestly, I did until I couldn't stand it any longer. There had to be more. "Well," I prompted. "Voilŕ what? What did you see?"

Michael shrugged. "It was dark."

"Oh, come on. Dark is just the night. Or when you turn off a lightbulb. Big deal. It's gotta be more than that. Or ... oh, I see. Maybe you don't remember. I'm like that, you know. Sometimes things get a little fuzzy. Maybe it's on purpose. So I don't have to remember yucky things. Do you do that too?"

"No," he said softly. "I do remember. I remember the sun vanished. A big black spot in the sky. A hole. Like some monster had eaten it up. It felt colder all of a sudden. And the dogs howled. Maybe lasted a few minutes at most, but it seemed ... like forever. As if it was never going to return. Foolish, I know." His mouth tugged at one corner, then smoothed again.

I sat next to him. "Kind of like the end of the world."

"Yes."

"So your grandfather showed you the stars."

"Yes. Family tradition, father to son. For many generations, I was told. Long ago ... there was an explorer."

"Oooh, for real? I'm so jealous. Bobby never told me about her family. For all I know, she was hatched from an egg. And I don't know anything about my dad. Just some things Bobby said whenever she was drunk. Probably not even true. Big deal." I shrugged, pretending that I still didn't care that all my searching over the years had led to a big fat zero. Even Rabbit hadn't been able to help, and I'd known better than to ask Michael. "But you're lucky. You know. And they're cool relatives too. Adventures, buried treasure, yo-ho-ho, that kind of thing. Sounds like one of my books."

I looked encouragingly at Michael but he was staring down into his mug. Whatever memory he was revisiting must be private. Too bad it was always like that. I felt like pounding my fist on his door. Let me in. Please. "So did you get to wear your p.j.'s outside the house? I bet you liked it. Bet you felt sneaky."

He smiled, nodding. "Grandperé let me stay up late. Showed me the Big Dipper over there." Michael reached over my shoulder and pointed to the far tip of the constellation. "And there. That's Dubhe. Follow it straight up to the end of the Little Dipper's handle. Where they meet. That's the North Star. You can always see it. Doesn't matter where you are in the world. Grandperé used to say that if you knew where the North Star was, you could always find your way back home again ... And I used to tell that to ..."

Adam. I finished silently.

Michael glanced away, sipping his coffee for a long time. His profile looked stark, all shadows and moonlight. At last, he said, "I wonder ..." But he stopped abruptly again, swallowed hard as if there were something stuck in his throat.

"I'm sure Adam remembers. No. I know he does. How could anyone forget you, Michael? I never could. How could he?" I tried to take his hand, but he moved away before I could. We said nothing for awhile, staring at the sky. There was nothing to say, no other comfort to offer. I wasn't sure what to do next, my mind fumbling for a topic, any topic. Then it came to me. I knew. I squeezed his hand. "So show me something else. Oh, I know. There's the wishing star. Star light, star bright."

"Save your wishes. Do not waste them on that. It is a planet," he said firmly. "Venus."

"How do you know?"

"Does not twinkle like the other stars. Like Mars. See? Over there. The red one."

"That's not red. That's not even remotely red. It's not even pink."

"Yes, it is."

"Nope. Definitely not. You're colorblind. Is that the color of Fraises Haribo? No, it's not. I rest my case."

"Do not mention my Haribo. You ate the last one. Again. Really, Nikita. You thought I was not looking, but ..."

"Over there," I interrupted, hoping to distract him. "Wow. Look at that. Is that a shooting star? Quick! Make a wish."

"No."

"An airplane?"

"Satellite. Too fast for an airplane. No blinking lights."

"A satellite? One of ours? Hope it's working now." I waved at the speck of light zooming across the night. "He-e-e-e-ey. Hey up there. Think they can see us? Maybe we should really give them something to see. Something to write home about."

"Something?" Michael took the mug from me, set it aside. Held my hands. "What kind of something?"

He leaned towards me, asked again with That Look. The one that slayed me every time. Full of anticipation and promise; all that passion tightly lidded but boiling underneath, just ready to escape, just a moment away. Excitement raced through me. My heart thudded faster, jolting against my ribs.

"Something like dessert?" Duh-sehr. Michael pronounced it very slowly, carefully so that it would be perfectly clear - not like the last difficult time when a simple mis-translation had led to a huge misunderstanding. But no matter how hard that had been, the end result had been more than satisfactory for both of us. After all my private tutorials, I understood French much better now.

I asked, "Just dessert?" We both laughed. The twist of his lips, the glint in his eyes was full of steamy suggestion. I didn't think I could ever look at an eclair again without blushing. He had taken his finger and ... Jeez. Oh no. I had to stop thinking about it. I had to stop it right now because I could feel my cheeks already heating, could hear his throaty chuckle in reply. "I ... uh ... Did you have something in mind?"

"Perhaps." Michael reached for me, but I turned away at the last moment to pick up a small bag from the tray. I thrust it into his hands. Paper rustled. Michael slid one finger across the top of the bag, then inserted it. Slowly, slowly he parted the bag until its flaps opened. A sweet, ripe musk drifted out, tickling my nose. "Ah," he said without looking. "Peaches."

"Yeah, the last peaches of summer. Will that do?"

Michael thoughtfully tilted his head, then nodded again. Inched towards me. "Maybe." Then he slid another inch so that we were now hip to hip. The hem of my skirt was hitching between us, creeping higher and higher up my thigh. As he moved closer, his soft jeans rubbed against my leg, the cool night air licking my bare skin. His knee circled against some sensitive spot behind mine. The more he pressed, the warmer I felt. My eyes drifted shut, my muscles magically turning to water. I wanted to flow over him. I wanted him to immerse himself in me.

"Open," he said. My legs obeyed automatically. "No," he added softly. A fingertip traced my eyes. "Look at me." He called my name as he suddenly thrust his leg between mine. He pushed higher, deeper, penetrating through cloth and dampness, pressing against me. I gasped. Then he smiled as if he'd felt - as well as heard - my response. Maybe he had. I couldn't hide a thing any longer. I wasn't trying to. I was beyond caring. He knew all my secrets and he was regarding my very last one. His eyes were resting there, and how I wished it was another part of him.

I angled towards him, my body begging.

"I have ... an idea," he said lowly.

Stop talking. Stop talking and do it. I clenched his shoulders, pulling him closer, him resisting. As if he heard me, he answered by shaking his head, his hair brushing me, sensitizing everything more. Little shocks tingled along my legs, moving and sparking higher, where all my waiting and wanting centered. Now ... Please.

He looked me up and down, lingering on all the places in between which flushed, moistened, swelled with longing. "There is something I like better than peaches."

My lips dried. I managed to say, "What's that?" in a voice that didn't sound like me at all. I'd turned all smoky with a yearning I couldn't help, couldn't hide even if I wanted to. Michael seemed to hear it, know it. His eyes gleamed as if he'd already claimed me. His lips curved with triumph. I wanted to press my mouth there, tame the hardness, offer tenderness in return. I was still staring at his lips when he grabbed me. Hands cuffed my arms, then slid along breast, torso, the swell of my hips; ruffling up my skirt and swooping under it to possess me.

The man could move quickly when he wanted to. When he was inspired. The back of the chaise lounge pressed hard against my back as I spread my stance, straddling the lounge, trying to keep my balance in spite of his onslaught. I started to fall backwards but Michael clamped me between his hands and the commands of his mouth, so hot and determined, all rough and velvet. I couldn't escape the sly, slick trail he blazed downwards, then inwards.

"Peaches," he murmured against my last layer, then no layer at all. His breath teased me; all sound and fury; a fine torture that he prolonged even though I begged with guttural sounds, then the frantic urgings of my pelvis. "Peaches," he said again, his voice deepening, reverberating through me. "Peaches ... and cream."

##

Gradually my mind cleared, but my body still felt liquid with deep pleasure that soaked every sinew. I used to be a woman. But now I was a puddle. A very happy puddle. Oh well. Who the hell needed to move? Why would I want to? With Michael, warm and pliant underneath me, his breath ruffling the hair behind my ear. I started to stretch but his hands stopped me before I could move much more. "What are we doing?"

Felt him smile under my cheek. "Forget already?"

Those wide palms spanned me and cupped, circled. Slowly his long strong fingers swept over me, reminding me of each burning moment, making me forget other things entirely. I shifted to a different position. Oh. That was nice. More than nice. Even better if I did this. Much better. I tried again, but this time harder, faster, swiveling and sliding. I stared down, watching his face twist into lines of exquisite pain; lines I wanted to kiss away and make better. "How much ... longer?"

He answered without words like he usually did. Caught me, then advanced with a ruthless silence. Sudden sure moves that made me quicken inside. Touches that spun me around and around until any thoughts flew away. He was sending me. I was soaring.

"No. I meant ..." I gave a half-laugh, half-groan as I teeter-tottered between delight and torment; trying, trying to reach that perfect point. He pushed, I pulled. Climbing, falling, again and again. My action. His reaction. Our forces moving, accelerating, colliding. The tension mounted, spiraling inward, tightening more until finally ... finally exploding outward. Light. Heat. Obliterating everything.

Our cries joined into one ultimate shout - joyous, triumphant, defiant; ringing out into the night, then gradually muting into ragged breaths as we dissolved together on the lounge. Legs folded together, hearts twined.

It took awhile, but eventually I gathered back inside my body, inside his arms. I blinked. Stared. Panicked. "Oh God ... I can't see."

"It is your hair." Slowly he pulled it off my face so that it slid across my skin like one of his caresses. "Better?"

I nodded. Bit my lip. Turned on my side away from him.

His hand traced up my back, then rested possessively along my hip. "What is it?"

I shrugged, not wanting to spoil our moment. He pulled me back until we were nestled like spoons on our sides. His arms wrapped around me again. Michael pressed a kiss on my neck. "Tell me."

"How much longer?"

He chuckled a little. "Rest now. Not long."

"No. Not that. I meant how much longer do we have together? This time?" I hated this. Snatching a moment here or there. He seemed to hate it too. I could see the sadness touch his face: fogging his eyes, a fine line drawn around one corner of his mouth. But it was all we had. It had to be enough right now.

A soft puff of air hissed through Michael's teeth. "Until they call us in. Until the phone rings."

"Then I hope it never rings. Never ever ever."

"It may be awhile. Other missions have top priority. Your assignments were ranked lower. This follow-up to the Apollo project is probably lower still. We are all right."

"For now," I said.

"For now. For the short term."

And the long term? I remembered the Magic Eight-ball and its cloudy predictions. A string of Definitely Not's. Future Uncertain. Ask Again. had been its most optimistic answer. That said it all. Michael and me. Our whole relationship reminded me of riding that rollercoaster by the beach. We had been creaking up, up, up the hill for so long, and now finally things came easier for us. So easy now. Zooming down the slant, banking the turns. We were speeding faster and faster out of control. I felt dizzy, excited, terrified. No safety bars, just Michael holding on to me, and me holding on to Michael. Me holding on and knowing that I was going to fly off at any second. Any second, something - some force - would pull us apart.

But for now, we were still together. They hovered over us like vultures. Waiting and watching us but they hadn't forbidden anything. Not yet. I knew that the time would come when Section wouldn't allow it. Me and Michael. Madeline and Operations. We all were racing towards a collision. There it was. I could see it dead ahead of us. And there wasn't a goddam thing I could do about it. No brakes. Couldn't get off this ride. Didn't want to. I loved Michael. I'd take my chances. But what were they? Maybe the Magic Eight-ball was right after all. The odds stank. It didn't look good. I shivered a little.

"Cold, Nikita? Come." He held me tighter, resting his cheek against the top of my head. His sigh ruffled through my hair. "It's late. Turning cold. Let me keep you warm."

If only it were that simple. I snuggled deeper into his arms, and wished it could stay like this forever. I listened to Michael's breathing slow down, then gradually deepen into sleep. The pauses, the half-sighs. I listened to him for a long time. Gazed at the bare sliver of a moon. A few stars twinkled here and there in the night. Such little light. So much blackness between those stars. All the space in between. A void without air or life. Nothing could exist there in that vacuum.

And all of a sudden, I felt very small ... overwhelmed. Jeez. I was just a speck, something puny in the grand scheme of things. Who did I think I was? Could I really make a difference, go against the system, make this all work? I shivered again. But this time, it wasn't the night that made me cold. It wasn't the night at all.

##

Moon/La Lune (Michael)

Merde. The moment I walked into the room, I knew I was in trouble. A thousand missions and two wives had honed my instincts until they were razor sharp, but I never knew how to handle this situation. What was I supposed to do now? It was too late. The smell of hot tomato and fried garlic wafted through the apartment. It should have smelled homey and welcoming, but it did not. It smelled like disaster. Dread stabbed my stomach like four-inch nails. I could hear Nikita in the living room. I walked towards the sound of her husky singing, a little loud, a lot off-key. Nikita sang like she did everything - enthusiastically and in a style all her own. A style I loved.

"So much fun to make, so much f-u-un to eat ... Oh, Michael. You're back early. Dinner's not ready yet. Still simmering." Nikita was reading a book on the couch. She sat up and lifted her lips for a kiss. She tasted like soy sauce and licorice. The combination should have been strange, but on her, it seemed just right. She was always the right flavor. I bent down and tasted her all over again. Afterwards, she leaned her head on my shoulder and sighed. "You're always cooking so I thought I'd surprise you."

"Good," I lied. Better premedicate myself before dinner. Two antacids pills should do the trick. I sat down on the edge of the couch and lifted one arm. Laughing, she scooted closer. Her warm curves settled against me, her silky sunshine hair brushing my cheek. A little bubble of laughter escaped her. And everything, all of a sudden, seemed worth it. Even the chronic indigestion. The pain in my gut seemed like nothing compared to the queer pain in my heart whenever I saw her. My arm wrapped around her, pulled her closer.

Nikita burrowed deeper. "Well?"

"What?"

"Any new messages?"

I shrugged. "Checked my e-mail through a different source. Nothing since yesterday. Still status yellow."

"Great. And the Space Rangers tournament?"

Secretly I rolled my eyes: at her, at me, I did not know which. I should not have checked. It had been frivolous, requiring more time. More time increased the chance of detection. A certain risk but I had done it anyway. "Li-Huan is winning."

"Ha! Poor Birkoff. He's in real big trouble now. Oh my God! If he loses, then he'll have to dye his hair. What color? Not pink! That's going to be hideous." Giggling, Nikita leaned her head back. Her eyes were shiny with amusement and thanks. She laughed some more, and I smiled back, feeling her quiver with laughter. It was awhile before she was done chuckling. When the last bubble of humor rose up and popped out of her, she slowly sat up and handed me the book she'd been reading. "Hey, guess what I found? Saw this at the bookstore down the street. I got this for you."

"The Life of Galileo. Thank you."

"Sure. Whatever floats your boat. But I got to tell you. It deep-sixed mine. Glug Glug. Straight to the bottom. The whole play sucks. I skipped to the end. It ends bad." Nikita's whole face scrunched up into a look of disgust. She thumped her finger against the cover. "I mean, look at this here. When Galileo gets dragged before the Inquisition, it's his one big chance to be a hero. He could actually stand up to the Church. But what does he do? He gives up. What a load of crap! Can you believe that?"

"He lived."

"But he lived like a worm. He betrayed all his students. They were counting on him. Every single one of them, and Galileo totally caved in. Well, I wouldn't do that. I couldn't. He took the easy way out." A fierce light shone in Nikita's blue eyes. Her whole face seemed to brighten with the prospect of the Good Fight. She looked determined, scornful, and young. Very young. Had I ever been that young once? Felt that same way? I could not remember. It had been so long ago.

"Easy?" I said at last. "What was easy about that?"

"He lied. He saved his ass."

"They would have burned Galileo at the stake. Do you think he should have died?" I asked softly. "Do you think it is harder to die for what you believe in? Maybe it is harder to live. Much harder." I know.

##

When the call finally came, it was not what I had expected. It was not the remote phone ringing this time. It was the door bell, a quaint old fashioned device requiring real human contact to actuate, then respond. The door bell rang again: two short, one long. An old signal from my first mission. I recognized it. I had been cool on the outside but all rookie nerves on the inside. Just like then, I knew who it was even before I checked the surveillance monitor. Why him? It did not make sense, but I was used to that too. Cautiously, I opened the door. "Hello, Dickie D."

" 'ullo, 'ullo," he said cheerily. He walked into the apartment with that cocky, wide-legged gait as if he were still an East End jockey astride his horse instead of the operative he'd become years ago. He was carrying two shopping bags. One was full of magazines and newsletters. The other held a wrapped bundle.

"Stumpy?! Oh my God! What are you doing here?" Nikita pushed past me to bend down and hug the little man whose pointed beard was still as flaming red as on the day we'd run our first mission. His impeccable sense of fashion had not changed either. Today he wore a polka-dot shirt and plaid pants that hurt my eyes. Nikita rapped her knuckles on the top of Stumpy's porkpie hat. "Nice one. Very stylish."

"Mind me 'at. Just re-did it with a bit of the old alumin-ee-um. Brought yer somethin', ducks." He handed her one of the shopping bags.

Nikita took it and rifled through its contents. "Hey, look at this. You've been busy. More conspiracy newsletters. 'The Spy in the Sky: Satellites Control Your Mind'. That looks interesting. Your last newsletter said that they scan us like canned peaches."

"The trackers," I said softly. "That's exactly how they work."

Nikita held up the newsletter and pointed to the headline. "But what do you mean by this, Stumpy? If I aim the TV remote control at your head, will it change your channels? Volume up. Volume down."

"Don't act like a right Barbie. I already told yer. Don't yer remember a thing? It's the bleedin' cell-u-lar phones wot's does that trick. Whene'er me mate Ted Koppel is 'oppin' mad at me, 'e picks up the phone and starts messin' wi' me 'ead. He don't ne'er you mind wi' the old remote control. My life! Why should 'e? Remote controls are the wrong frequency. Just infrared. It's a li'l of the old microwave what's scrambles yer eggs. Ta! Just read it. It's all there in the old black and white. It's wot I call mandatory reading. Like yer ABC's."

"Really?" Nikita glanced at the paper for a second before she stuffed it back into the bag. She set it down on the ground. "Um, thanks, but I'm still catching up on your latest one. Oh, now what's this? You shouldn't have. Really. You shouldn't ... Oh." She unwrapped the bundle and pulled out a black felt hat with a wide floppy brim. Tried it on, turned her head either way, and smiled. Big. "Great. I love it. How did you know? I lost my last one in Berkeley."

"Ta. Just look at yer. Lovely, lovely. Lookin' loverly in that spy-chicky 'at wi' the bloomin' big brim down to yer nose. Ve-e-e-ry mysterious and ..." Grinning, Stumpy fluttered his hand and wolf-whistled low and long. He pointed at her. "And this one's been done up to me own spec-i-fi-ca-tions. Spiffed up. Alumin-ee-um film. Just like mine." Stumpy pointed to his temple. "Don't let 'em mess wi' yer mind. Can never be too careful."

"What do you mean?" I asked quietly. "Trouble?"

"Trouble! Wi' a capi'al T. Bet yer last flamin' dollar, there's trouble. Barney Rubble's always around the jolly 'orner in these parts. Best be prepared. Like me mum always says: An ounce, Dickie D. An ounce of the old pre-ven-tion gets yer a whoppin' big pound of cure. 'ats on. Pants zipped tight. And eyes will be pasted open. Permanent like." Stumpy paced around the room. He stared down at the floor, mumbled something to himself as he rubbed his temple. For a moment, Stumpy looked a little confused, but when he looked up again, his black eyes were sharp as gimlets. "Be-avin' yerself? 'ope not. Sincerely 'ope not. Wot's a li'l downtime, eh? Grab a li'l while yer can."

"But it's over now," said Nikita sadly as she squeezed my arm. "It's gotta be if you're here. We got the second message. Told us to sit tight until they sent us new orders. But why did they send you? Why didn't they just call us in?"

"They tried two 'ours ago, but they couldn't connect. Yer phones?"

"No. Never rang," I said.

"Must be dead. So that's why yer didn't answer. Figured. Com's down in this sector. Total blackout. We're all doin' it the old-fashioned way. Ev'ryone's 'oppin' mad. Even still, Section's won'drin' where the bloody hell yer two were. Rumors floatin' around that yer flew the coop. Finally scarpered. Rabbit said I better ..." Stumpy bit off the end of his sentence, glancing nervously at me. Then he shrugged, gave a short uncomfortable laugh. "Well, never yer mind that. Came meself. A little early start out the gates. No one's the wiser. Better that way. Better old Dickie D. than the goon patrol. Shoot first, questions later. Not 'ealthy. Not 'ealthy at'all, me old darlin's."

"Rumors? Who?" Nikita picked up her gear, gave me back my gun. Under the brim of the new hat, her face was faintly shadowed with alarm that hadn't been there just a moment ago.

I holstered my gun. "Do not worry. I will take care of it."

"Sure yer will, mate. Go right ahead. But mind yer step. Just mind yer bloomin' step. It's a long way down."

Quickly we removed our evidence from the apartment: a long blonde hair from the bathtub, a coin under a pillow, the wrinkles on the bedspread, the Haribo wrappers, the paperback book she had bought for me this afternoon. I surveyed the apartment one last time. A final sweep. Everything had been put back in place. Immaculate again. The last traces of our holiday had been completely removed as though our time together had never happened. Finally I closed the front door. I found myself feeling a little sad. Not even Stumpy's one-liners cheered me up.

He was telling us some story about Ted Koppel's toupee, but all I could hear were Stumpy's earlier words. Mind yer step. Just mind yer bloomin' step. His warning echoed through my head as I locked the door. I wished I could lock up my worries just as easily.

Continued in Second Contact: Total Blackout

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