September 8, 2001, 1030 AM (to about 130 AM the next morning), Seacouver, Washington

Fiona slept late.

It was a Saturday, and she had nowhere she needed to be. Briefly, when she had been married to a Jewish man in the years following the Second World War, she had attended synagogue with him every Saturday morning; she still remembered all the prayers. But since he had died in nineteen sixty-one, she had stayed away from the organized prayer scene, keeping instead to her ancient childhood beliefs of the pantheons and the one Goddess, and keeping her weekends to sleep late.

Blinking at her clock, the numbers 1 0 3 6 blinked back at her. She sighed, stretched contently, and emerged from bed for her coffee and breakfast. Last night, she had visited Joe's bar again, listening to Marius play until the early hours of the morning. It had been close to three-thirty when she had finally come home, Marius with her. She did not wonder to where he was now.

She sipped her coffee, loving the liquid slipping down her throat. She noticed the note next to the coffee maker. Curious, she took it in her hands to reads it.

*Fiona, sorry I had to leave, but I have an early meeting today that I unfortunately cannot miss. I'll call you later? Enjoy the coffee. Love, M.*

Fiona smiled, before she crumbled the note in her hands, arching her hand back to throw to the trashcan. She missed, and picked the note up again. She tried again, this time making the basket. She smiled, finishing her coffee, rummaging about her cupboards for cereal.

She had just poured herself a bowl, when her cell phone rang, and curious, she answered it. "Hello?"

"Hello. Is this Fiona, please?"

"This is she. Who is this?"

"Paul. I helped to move in your furniture last week. Sorry about not calling you sooner, but this week's been real busy."

"Sure, no problem." She decided not to mention that she had not expected him to call ever. "So, what can I do for you? How are you?"

"Still kicking. You doing anything tonight?"

Fiona quickly racked her brain. Tonight? She and Marius had left it open that he might come by some time tonight, but she didn't know what time, or if he even would. And if he did, nothing would stop him from coming by later. "No, nothing," she finally answered. "Did you have something in mind?"

"I just got two tickets to an opera tonight. Won them off the radio," he added proudly. Not many left. Do you like opera? Thought we could go, maybe somewhere for dinner first?"

"Which opera?"

"Umm. . ." Fiona heard some scuffle on the line, assuming Paul must be looking for the tickets. "La Boheme," he announced several minutes later. "Ever heard or seen it?"

Fiona bit her lip to keep herself from laughing out loud. She did not think it would be wise to mention that she had both seen and heard La Boheme several times, most in the turn of last century, or that she had known the author, and had actually played Mimi for a few turns in the early productions. "I'm familiar with it, yes."

"Great! So, did you want to go? You seem like the opera type."

"Do I now?" laughed Fiona. "Sure, sounds like fun. Did you want to meet you there?"

"I could get you. Isn't that what makes it an actual date?" This time, Paul laughed. "I'll pick you up around six?"

"Six is fine. See you then. Bye," she paused, "Paul."

He wished his farewell, disconnecting the call first. Fiona started into the phone for several seconds, before clicking it close, and erupting into laughter. She could just see Amanda appreciating this. With another laugh at that thought, she quickly finished her coffee and cereal, changing into old clothes -overalls and a white tee, both paint splattered -finding her paint brushes and a blank canvas.

She had first started painting in the fourteen hundreds, and six hundred years later, she found it still relaxed her.

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Few minutes before four-thirty, and Fiona threw a paintbrush across the room, looking at the canvas before her. It was no longer blank, but she still saw the painting slightly unfinished. But she was shot, and her hand was cramped. Stretching her muscles, she stood, extending her arms behind her back, and she glanced at the clock. Her mouth opened into an 'o'. She had been painting for over six hours.

Leaving the canvas to dry, she cleaned the paintbrushes, and then proceeded to clean herself, as she knew both her skin and hair were flecked with paint. Stepping out of the hot water and steam, her phone rang, and she frowned, answering it. "Hello. . . Marius! I was going to call you. . . No, no, just going out tonight. . . To the opera. With Paul. He helped to move my furniture in last week. . . . Because he invited me, and because the opera is a Giacomo Puccini, and I have a soft spot for him. . . I don't know. Late, I would think. We're having dinner first. . . Call you when I get in?. . . *laughs* you have fun too, bye."

Clicking her phone closed again, she searched her closet for clothes, swearing under her breath at the thought of wearing stockings again.

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"You look nice," complimented Paul, holding the chair for her. He had shown up at her door only a few minutes after six, a bouquet of yellow tulips in hand, wearing a jacket and tie, verifying she liked Italian. She said she did.

"Thank you," she responded. She folded her napkin across her lap. "So do you."

"Thanks." A waitress came by the table to hand them menus and water glasses, asking if they wanted drinks, but both shook their heads. "So, you teach, right?" he asked.

"Philosophy. At the university."

"Aren't you young to be teaching there? No offense, of course, just. . . you do look young."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she smiled. "I'm twenty-six, almost twenty-seven. I was a prodigy, graduated from high school when I was only fifteen, finished my undergraduate degree in three years, had my masters at age nineteen, and a PhD at age twenty-two."

It was the history she had invented for herself, and for this current pseudonym. Just because she used her real name again did not mean she also used her real history. She understood the rules.

"I taught in New York for a few years before coming here." She paused again, sipping her water, smiling across the table. "What about you? What's your life story?"

"Nothing nearly so dramatic. I'm thirty-three. Started this job to earn my way through college. Now, I own the company. Well, co-own it. But I have general run of the thing. My partner is great with inventing ideas, but not when it comes to executing them." He paused, shrugged. "Compliment one another, I guess."

"Was he the one who helped you last week?"

"To move you in, you mean? Nah, that was Rich. Ryan, I think he said the last name was. Or, was it Noel? But anyway he just moved back here from . . . somewhere." He shrugged again. "I don't know where. He's very secretive of his past. But he was looking for a job, and I needed a man. End of deal."

The waitress returned, asking for their orders. Fiona asked for the eggplant parmesan, and Paul ordered the veal. "So, who is your favorite philosopher?" Paul asked once the waitress has left again.

"I love the ancient philosophers. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle."

"Yeah? How come?"

Fiona raised her eyebrows, giving her voice enough lilt to convince she was joking. "Possibly because I knew them?"

To which Paul threw his head back and laughed. He reached his hand awkwardly across the table for hers. He smiled, and Fiona smiled back. He did love a woman who had a sense of humor.

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"Tired yet?" Paul asked. He figured it to be close to midnight. The opera had just ended, and he had enjoyed it, much to his own surprise. He had never seen an opera before, and from her expression throughout the show, it was obvious Fiona had enjoyed it as well. Walking to his car -parked about half a block away -he reached for her hand, and she did not pull away. She shook her head. "I know this great, little pastry shop not far from here, and we did skip dessert earlier."

"Pastry? You said the magic word."

Paul smiled. He opened the car door for her, echoed her order of coffee for himself, and he laughed when her eyes grew wide at the prospect of chocolate cake.

"I want to see you again, Fiona," he heard himself say. They still sat in his car, in the parking lot of her apartment complex, and the conviction of the words fell on the air, almost gracefully.

"I'd like that," she responded. When he leaned over to kiss her, she showed no hesitation in returning the gesture. She smiled, with purse in hands, she exited the car, waving before she disappeared into the first floor foyer. Paul gave a small grin, throwing the car into reverse, to pull away. Her lips had been warm.

Grinning herself, Fiona let herself in, to find Marius on her couch, watching some movie on cable. "Hey, been waiting long?"

"Maybe an hour?" he shrugged. "I used the key under the doormat. Didn't think you would mind."

"As long as you put it back."

"Of course, I did." He patted the couch cushion next to his. Fiona obliged, kicking her high heels off in the process. "Have a nice time then?"

"Lovely. Enough to warrant a second date." She cocked his head, studying his expression carefully. "You are ok with this, right?"

His response was to laugh. Tenderly, he touched his lips to hers. Fiona smiled, and rested her head on his shoulder. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, smiling when he heard her deep breathing several moments later. He carried her to bed, first removing her stockings, dress, and bra, slipping an old, ratty tee over her head, slipping her under the covers. He removed his own shirt and jeans, slipping in beside her. He touched her lips once more, and she stirred slightly in his sleep, mumbling something in a language he did not catch.

He smiled, and he closed his own eyes. He was ok. After all, they had agreed: they were technically not together