ARTHUR

I wake up on a pleather couch in a dark room. Nothing smells like Alfred's house. Nothing is the same, or familiar, but I'm too out of it to care. I've just slept, but I still feel exhausted. Why?

I find out when I move aside the curtains and the blackout blinds and see through a crack between the shutters outside—it's nighttime.

How is it still night? Oh, god, my head . . . I haven't felt this disoriented since my last hangover.

I wonder if Gilbert has any alcohol. Germans love beer, don't they?

No! I can't go back to drinking. What would Alfred think?

But there's no more Alfred. I don't have to care what he thinks. I'm out of his evil, loving clutches.

"No alcohol for breakfast," I mumble to myself, and stumble through the shadow until I find a staircase, up the stairs, a hallway, the door at the end?

Bingo, master bedroom. A queen size bed with one lonely lump in the middle of it. Odd that he's in the center of the bed. Even when Alfred's out of town, I can only manage to sleep on my side, the side I'm used to. So Gilbert's never had someone sharing his bed—or if he did, it was a long time ago.

"Excuse me," I say from the foot of the bed. "Gilbert? Mr. Bel . . . uh . . . Gilbert? Hello?"

No response, save for a little groan in his sleep. I wonder what he's dreaming about.

"Please don't jump up and kill me," I tell him. Then I reach out and start tapping his ankle through the blankets, harder each time—this used to work well on Alfred, who could sleep through the world ending, but a vaguely ticklish sensation would have him up in a second.

Doesn't have the same effect on Gilbert. He doesn't even lift his head as he says, voice thick with sleep, "The fuck?"

He doesn't sound angry. Not yet. "Gilbert, it's Arthur, the one you're helping out? I'm staying here?"

"Ja, und?" Is he too tired for English now?

"Well, I woke up and it's dark out, so I'm sort of confused about what day it is. I'm sorry for waking you, but it feels so strange . . ."

Before he can reply, his phone lights up and starts playing an alarm. He sits up, now, gets his phone from the floor beside the bed, and silences the alarm. He shows me the clock, it's a bit before midnight.

"You woke me up before my alarm did," he says, rubbing his eyes. He's not wearing a shirt, and I can't stop staring at his arms as the muscles in them flex. Alfred's body was smooth and firm, but Gilbert's is toned.

Stop comparing. Don't be so weird.

"I don't know if that's awesome or not." Gilbert's hands drop to his lap. I can barely see him in the shadow; he's just a fuzzy grey thing in a world of fuzzy black things. "But I'll kill that confusion for ya. I sleep during the day and live at night. When we got back here yesternight, it was getting close to dawn, so I gave ya something to help ya sleep, even though you were pretty tired anyway. But now your sleep cycle will match up with mine easier. First time sleeping through day is always hardest."

"So I . . . I lost the whole day?" This feels so disheartening. A day of doing things—I don't know what—lost and never to be found.

"Uh, no. You're still awake today, it's just dark outside." Gilbert swings his legs over the side of the bed, and I see that they're bare, too. "Ya might wanna look away, unless you're interested in seeing my dick."

I turn around quickly, but something catches in my mind. "Wait—you gave me something for sleep? What?"

I hear him getting up, opening a door—probably the closet—and putting something on. "Eh, you know. It has no real name, it's just the sciencey term for it, I can never remember those. But it's totally harmless, don't worry. No side effects, except being a little muddled after."

"A little muddled? You drugged me!" I whirl around, furious. He's wearing nothing but boxers. I think they have something written on them, but I can't see. "You said there'd be no raping! None that I can remember, is that it?"

He stares at me. Then he moves, and flicks on a lamp, which fills the room with a soft sepia light. Nothing is really lit up, but at least I can see better. And I can get my first good look at my so-called rescuer.

He's tall, broad shoulders, and his chest and abdomen show proof of exercise, as do his arms. But his face is where my attention lingers. His hair is light—not the platinum blond I thought it was last night, but ashen, colorless white. His eyes, squinting the slightest bit even with the gentleness of the brown lamp, are red. Not the bright scarlet of fresh blood, but the off, grayish, pinkish red of . . .

"Albinism," he says, making me realize how rude I'm being, just staring at him. "It's a bitch."

I try not to look directly at him. "I-I'm sorry—"

"Not your fault my chromosomes are fucked."

"Well, don't think I've gotten distracted. You said it was safe here—"

"And it is safe. Fuck me, I only drugged ya to make sleeping at the same time as me easier. Jesus. I thought you'd want company instead of just sittin' around while I sleep. Guess I shoulda saved myself the goddamn trouble." He walks around me, out to the hallway, so I follow him, and in the bathroom doorway he turns back to look down at me. "Look. You can be sure I didn't put my dick anywhere near ya, 'cause you're a dude, and I don't fuck dudes. I'm straight. Get me?"

Something deflates inside me, almost feels . . . disappointed, as insane as that is. What is wrong with me?

"Yes," I reply, lowering my gaze. "I understand. Sorry."

There's a pause. Then he says, "Don't worry about it. Trust is hard to come by these days, especially when you're a big strong awesome fucked-up albino German."

I have to stifle surprised laughter, but a giggle escapes before I can. I slap a hand over my mouth. "I-I wouldn't know!"

I look up at him timidly, but he's grinning at me.

"Don't be afraid to have a good time," he tells me. "Bet you're the kinda guy who likes a good laugh."

I can't even remember what I like, but the words come out before I can stop them, a whisper creeping out between my fingers, "Kind of girl, not guy."

Gilbert's eyebrows quirk slightly. He looks me up and down once, then shrugs with a friendly smile. "Kinda gal, then. Party girl, I bet. Don't worry, I'll loosen ya up. Anyway, I'm gonna shower. There's cereal and shit in the kitchen." He closes the bathroom door.

And I stand there in shock, trying to figure out how this stranger can give me the response I need, but my husband can be so, so wrong.