The Crash of Hennington

—Darling. It happens to a lot of men.

—But you said you could slow things down, that it wouldn’t be a problem.

—I did slow things down, but let’s face it, you’re a little soldier who wants to shoot as soon as he gets to the firing line.

—Little.

She sighed, but didn’t lose the smile from her face.

—I don’t mean literally little. I meant it as a term of endearment.

—I’m not little.

He was. He was almost six inches shorter than Jacki, a good two stones slighter, and his genitalia, while proportional, were on the smaller side of what Jacki had seen in her most recent business days.

—No one’s saying you are.

—You just did.

—I didn’t, but we were having such a fun evening. Come here. Come back to bed. We’ll have a nice, relaxing time for the rest of the hour.

Wiggins looked skeptical.

—Maybe we can make you go twice.

—You think so?

—Honey, I’m sure of it.

What were these words? Where did they come from? She didn’t even call her children ‘honey', had never addressed her husband during the eleven years they were married as ‘darling'. And what were these clothes? She was a mathematician, for pity’s sake. Mathematicians didn’t wear rubber panties or silicon bras with zippers down the front of each breast. Accountants sure as hell didn’t wear black hosiery attached to a black metal band that gave a slight electric shock when touched. At least not on a regular basis, they didn’t. Who was she? Who was she right now?

Sometimes with Forum came the Lions, and they could kill you if you let them drag you away. Jacki closed her eyes and fought. Forum had a vibration, and while Councilman Wiggins resumed sucking down her nutrient-rich breast milk (also, incidentally, Forum-rich; Councilman Wiggins had quite unknowingly developed his own habit), she concentrated on working her way back into Forum’s vibe. She could even see it when she closed her eyes. It was honey-colored and shimmering and just out of her reach.

Breathe, Jacki, breathe.

The Lions were at her heels, trying to drag her back to the present, if she could just, if she could only, if she could—

There it was. Oh, my, yes. There it was.

Everything’s all right, honey. Nothing could be finer, darling.

Was she talking aloud?

She exhaled slowly, and her unconscious hand tenderly stroked the Councilman’s thinning brown hair.

20. In the Hours Before Morning. (#ulink_e16c9115-9d8d-5846-b14d-46609ed50625)

The questions were as old as time itself, but no less rigorous for their familiarity:

Are there reasons for love? And are they all intangible? If not, what if intangibles are the only things I have? Am I justifying all of this for my own wishful thinking? Is that love then, or is it just rationalization? Is this what we do when we’re in love? Is there nothing real? Or is he just beyond my reach? And what does he think of me? Is he reminded of me during the rest of the week? Does my name enter his mind at work? Do I exist for him when I’m not here?

Peter hadn’t slept much. He glanced over Luther’s slumbering neck at the clock. It was still a little while before dawn. Staying for the whole night was another rarity in a clip, especially since Luther had already paid and Peter had logged in a completion over the phone hours ago. He put his face to the back of Luther’s neck, inhaling a funk that verged on the offensive but steadfastly remained deeply sexual. It was a smell only lovers got. A stranger would have wrinkled his nose at the presumption.

Luther stirred.

—Are you awake?

—Oh, sorry, Luther. I didn’t mean to wake you.

—I wasn’t sleeping.

—Me neither.

—Why not?

—Just thinking.

—What about?

—Just things. How about you? You’ve got to get up for work in a couple of hours.

—I know.

—So why are you awake? I don’t go on shift until tonight. I can afford to waste sleeping time.

—It’s not as if I’m choosing to.

—What’s bothering you?

—It’s nothing.

—I’ve heard that before.

—You wouldn’t understand.

—Do you have any idea how insulting that is?

—Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I only meant that I don’t quite understand it, and that’s why I’m awake, because I can’t figure it out.

—Maybe I could help you.

—You wouldn’t want to get involved in my problems.

—Why wouldn’t I?

In the blue darkness, Luther turned to face Peter.

—Why would you?