Christine is transformed. Where I thought I would lead her with gentle persuasion, she pulls me insistently, urging me beyond imagination. My lack of understanding would be frightening if Christine permitted me a moment's thought. Finally, exhaustion overtakes us and we simply stop, unable to move sufficiently to arrange ourselves for sleep.

Later, I feel Christine slithering over my body and surmise that I am dreaming. No; I open my eyes and she smiles down at me, guiding my hands to her breasts. She seizes her pleasure from me; is she oblivious to my gaze as I marvel at her, or has her false modesty been scorched away? Ultimately, further satisfaction won, she permits me to sleep again.

I have no sense of time when I awake; unusual for me, but under the circumstances I am not surprised. Christine nuzzles; she is a faceless mass of tousled hair. She stretches out on top of me and kisses me. It is an extraordinary kiss; a woman's kiss. My amazement must show in my eyes, because her smile flickers and she bites her lip, apprehensive. I catch her head in my hands before she turns away.

"What has become of you?" I wonder. I kiss her passionately, willing her to understand that nothing is wrong. Her tongue darts into my mouth and her hands begin to roam my body. I bite her neck.

"I found your book," she confesses, arching her back.

"My book?"

She grunts in protest, forces my head back down to kiss her. "Sir Richard Burton. Is it alright? I just wanted something to read; I had no idea. I didn't know there were such books in all the world. At first, I put it right away, but I couldn't stop thinking about the pictures I'd seen," she confesses.

The thought of Christine paging through the Kama Sutra is stupefying. Motionless, I stare at her. "You read it?"

She nods, meeting my gaze unabashedly.

"What did you read?" I wonder aloud.

"All of it," she admits softly.

"Show me."

She thinks for a moment, then lies back, tucking her knees up to her chest. "The Position of the Wife of Indra?" she quotes, reaching out for me.

-0-0-0-0-

I steal from the bed when I know it is morning. Christine looks like a sleeping nymph; ineffably beautiful. I dress and head above ground to prepare a special meal for my beloved: buttery croissants, strawberry preserves, champagne, tea, and a perfect rose. I kiss my Angel's forehead and place the tray on her lap as she sits up.

"You won't eat, Erik?" she worries.

I shake my head, a lump already forming in my throat. "I have all I need," I croak.

"Ohhh," she sighs. She cups my horrible face in her hands as if it was a precious jewel and kisses me sweetly. I sit with her and we toast a new beginning. Christine slathers preserves onto a croissant and offers me a bite. Her simple gesture, cupping her hand under my chin in case I spill some, is achingly precious. Eventually, she finishes and I reach to remove the tray to the kitchen.

"Erik…Erik," she purrs, catching my sleeve. "Come back to bed…"

-0-0-0-0-

I stir, reaching for my Aphrodite, but the bed is cold and I come fully awake alone. Dejected, I listen. No sounds from the bath; no singing. I move slowly through our home, seeking a sign, but Christine is nowhere.

Suddenly, blind panic captures me. Could it be? Did I conjure Christine, piecing our life together from the rags of madness? Has she never been here at all?

I race to the wardrobe, reaching for the knob with trembling claws. I need only crack it open and spy Christine's humblest garment within to know that she is real, we are real. I will turn the knob and the faint lingering of her cologne on her clothing will ease my fractured mind.

But if the wardrobe is empty…if the wardrobe is empty, what will become of me?