So I affected him that much!
For several hours she’s been worried that he’ll say more, take his fantasy into the literary bedroom or something equally tawdry. After all, he could say anything at all with the secure “knowledge” that no one in his time would read it. And when he began describing the feelings their one dinner together had sparked in his love-starved head—thoughts that maybe he should consider ending his marriage and looking for someone like her to love—it was not a welcome accolade. Half the planet has now been invited to think of her as a virtual pinup girl, if not a potential homewrecker.
How on earth am I going to deal with this tomorrow or even live this down?she wonders. Even Playboyis now trying to reach her. At the same time she feels guilty that she’s irritated over his words when the man has less than forty-eight hours of air left and has absolutely no intention of embarrassing her. And in the end, she decides to deal with the morning show questions by laughing it off. After all, she’s done nothing to encourage him, and these are only the private musings of a dying man.
Nevertheless, the same questions keep echoing in her head. Why now? Why me?
She knows the answer, but she’s been avoiding the conclusion: She’s in his head.
And now, somehow, he’s in hers.
Waking from each nap is becoming more and more confusing.
Somehow Kip has developed the ability to fall almost immediately into REM sleep, something he could never do on Earth. But coming out of REM is a slightly wrenching experience, the dreams left behind so real and visceral that each time he has to think carefully about what is and isn’t real.
But then the full reality of his situation returns.
This time the dream was all about sex and lovemaking and he hates to leave it. He wonders if there’s sex in whatever dimension he’ll find himself occupying in two days. If not, he thinks, maybe he’d rather not go—as if he had a choice. It was sex and the lack of making love (or even the lack of opportunity to have raw sex with Sharon), that has all but destroyed his marriage.
And of everything in this life, he thinks he’ll miss sex the most.
If that’s how I measure my existence, in terms of how much I’ve been getting,he thinks, I was already near death.
The thought makes him chuckle and he considers writing something really steamy in the computer, just to show his future reader who he really is, the lusty Kip Dawson, a lover devoted to the female of the species who didn’t get much practice.
He poises his fingers over the keyboard, visualizing Diana Ross, wondering how tastefully yet graphically he could describe how he’d like a night with her to unfold, a menu of delights with her pleasure at the center while Conway Twitty sings “Slow Hand” in the background. “Bolero,” he thinks, was never his style.
Of course he could substitute any pretty female in such a narrative, but then it would be no more than mental masturbation. No, if he’s going to fantasize in writing, it should be Diana, whom he can see so clearly.
Why shouldn’t I try my hand at erotic narrative? No one in her time will see it, and I’ve already said I was thinking about her that way.
But then he feels a twinge of Puritanical alarm, as if even his demons will be straight-laced enough to be embarrassed at his prurient thoughts. But he needs a more practical reason to stay his hand, and he finds it in chivalrous concern for Diana. Even if his words weren’t found until she was a much older woman, such self-indulgent X-rated musings could embarrass her, and he would never want that.
He laughs again at how different the mental wiring is between male and female, and how abysmally unaware most women are of the simplicity of the male mind on the subject of sex.
Think driving force of life! Think the most beautiful element of life. Think I’d rather die without it.
He’s had no hope of getting that through to Sharon, or getting her to understand how destructive her disinterest in making love has been, and how it’s essentially doomed them.
So many things he should have changed. So many times he played it safe.
Oh, great!he chuckles. I find the true meaning of life with less than two days of it left. Impeccable timing!
He can see a lot of things more clearly now, having chronicled his entire life and come to the conclusion that at best he would give it a C minus.
No. Not even that good,Kip thinks. As an adult, I give myself an F.
Then again, what sense does it make to spend the remaining hours whining and crying and carrying on? Nothing will change as a result, except that he’ll lose the chance to add to his narrative. Besides, death will be a new beginning. He believes that, doesn’t he?
Kip feels a shudder ripple through him, a primal fear of what’s on the other side of that one-way door he’s facing. He remembers the adage that there are no atheists in a foxhole, and there are certainly none in Intrepid,but somehow all his philosophical thoughts about this existence and what happens next and why are being spread out on a table for some future universe to look at, and perhaps judge.
Or not.
In any event, he’ll know in two days how right or wrong he was, but suddenly all those musings seem infantile and untrustworthy.
Kip closes his eyes and forces his mind back to his narrative. It’s safer there, like a warm and familiar room with four walls and window shades he can pull against reality. Intrepiditself has begun to feel a little like that, and for two days he’s been able to stay uniquely focused, living his life over again.
Amazing, that focus, he thinks. Like Samuel Johnson said, “The prospect of being hanged in a fortnight most wonderously concentrates the mind."
He shakes his head. Johnson was talking about two weeks. He has two days.
But he also has the keyboard in front of him and a hard drive that doesn’t know the difference between the real life he’s been writing about and the life he wishes he’d had and all the things he should have done.
Virtual reality, virtual life. What is it they say in Hollywood? Do a rewrite? Good. I’ll rewrite my life the way it should have been.
The idea begins to take hold, bringing a faint smile. It would be like taking control, having the power to determine his own destiny, rather than just being along for the ride. He can get just as crazy about it as he wants. He can replace his parents with a keystroke, have the brother he always wanted—maybe even an identical twin—and when it comes to girls, the possibilities are unlimited. The cutest gals in school will be his. The homecoming queen, the sexiest siren in town. Forget Lucy, he’ll marry a drop-dead gorgeous Ph.D. with a stand-up comedienne’s sense of humor and a Julia Child’s skill at cooking. Superwoman! Chef in the kitchen, lady in the parlor, and wild woman in the bedroom.
Maybe I’ll earn a Ph.D. Maybe two. Perhaps a Nobel Prize for some discovery in one of the hard sciences, after a short but stellar career as an Air Force ace. No, not the Air Force. The Navy. I’ll become a Navy carrier pilot. Top Gun.
He lets the thoughts swirl, thinking about all he’s ever heard about someone creating his own reality by doing little more than what he’s contemplating. Just… creatingit.
If it’s all in my mind, then what’s the difference?
Suddenly he’s paging back through what has become a massive document, looking for the place where he first began to regret the way things were going.