“You can't. I'm his Klone, for heaven's sake. I'm him, and he's me.”

“Oh God, not that again,” I said, feeling overwhelmed by his persona. “I can't go through this again.”

“Didn't you feel closer to him last time after I left?” he said, looking hurt that I doubted his good intentions.

“How did you know that?” The truth was, I had. But he had no way of knowing. Or did he?

“Steph, it's meant to. I think that's why he sent me. Maybe I show you a side of him he doesn't know how to show you himself.” I glanced at the chartreuse pants and the rhinestone-encrusted T-shirt as he said it, but I found his theory a little hard to swallow. There was so much to Peter as it was, if he had a side like this, I wasn't sure he needed to show it to me. This was just a crazy experiment someone had dreamed up, or Peter had, and it had gotten out of hand right from the beginning. It was an insane fantasy to live out, and I was convinced I didn't need to. It was his fantasy not mine, and I was no longer sure it was even Peter's. “Look, let me spend the night,” he persisted in spite of all my rationalizations. “No double flip, no triple, no quadruple. We'll just lie in bed and talk, like good friends, old times. And I'll leave in the morning, I promise.”

“Where will you go?”

“Back to the shop. To take my head off.” Poor thing. It was a rotten way to spend Christmas. We deserved a little fun at least before he went back in the shop again. After all, he had been there since September, waiting for Peter to leave for California.

“All right. But just tonight. And no funny stuff. You can wear a pair of his pajamas.”

“Do I have to? Christ, they're so ugly. They're probably beige or something.” He winced at the prospect, as though their oatmeal blandness would cause him genuine pain. He would have felt differently if they'd been chartreuse satin.

“They're navy, with red trim. You'll love them.”

“I doubt it. But for you, I'll wear them.” I was only sorry I had finally disposed of my very last flannel nightgown. They were gone forever. I had already decided to sleep in my bathrobe, just to be safe. I didn't want to provoke Paul into anything we'd both regret later.

We went to bed eventually, and used the bathroom separately. He came out wearing the navy blue pajamas, looking as though he might get sick from wearing them, and I came out wearing my most chaste nightgown, and the terry-cloth bathrobe he had bought me at ‘21.’ It was a far cry from the last time I'd seen him. And this time, there were no candles. Peter was right, I had decided, they were a fire hazard.

“Not even one little one?” Paul looked crushed when I told him. He loved candlelight, and so did I now.

“No. I'm turning the light off,” I warned him, and got into bed next to him, but as soon as he put an arm around me, he felt just like Peter. I had to keep reminding myself he wasn't, but it was hard to remember in the dark.

“Why are you so uptight tonight?” he asked unhappily, as I lay tensely next to him. “He must be making you frigid or something. No wonder he had them send me.”

“You are not here on a mission,” I reminded him. “You're here to visit, as an old friend, and a figment of his occasionally insane imagination.” For the past three months, Peter had seemed so normal, that it was hard to remind myself now that the Klone had originally been his idea and creation.

“What about your imagination, Steph? Have you lost it entirely, or has he killed it?”

“No, he has made me very happy.”

“I don't believe you,” he said firmly. And I frowned in the darkness. I didn't like the way the conversation was going. I hadn't invited him to stay so I could defend myself. I had let him stay because I felt sorry for him. “If you were so happy, you'd still be as much fun as you used to be. Now you're more uptight than he is.”

“I can't sleep with both of you. It makes me crazy.”

“I am not ‘both of us.’ We are one person.”

“Then you're both nuts.”

“Possibly. But we also both love you.” He said it matter-of-factly.

“I love you too. I just don't want to confuse myself again. Last time, when I was with you, I thought I loved you and not him. Then when he came back, I knew I loved him, and not you. And by then, you had your head off anyway, so the whole thing was insane.” How could I ever discuss this with him? But he seemed to want to. And he looked irritated when he answered.

“You know where your head is, don't you?”

“Don't be insulting.”

“Why don't you just shut up for a minute,” he said, and before I could stop him, he kissed me. And in spite of all my stern resolve, it started all over again. I could suddenly feel everything I'd felt for him the last time, in spite of the promises I'd made myself not to.

“No!” I said, and then kissed him again, hating myself more than him. It was ridiculous. As soon as he touched me, I had absolutely no resistance, no morals.

“That's better,” he said, and kissed me again, and I wanted to hit him. But I didn't. I just went on kissing him, and after a while I didn't want to stop. I just wanted to lie there, kissing him forever. Until he touched me. And suddenly the kisses weren't enough, and I wanted all of him, and the worst part was that the whole time I kept missing Peter, and at the same time feeling Paul was part of him. It was impossible to sort out who was who and what was what, and whom I was doing what with, and why. And by the time it was all over, I was as crazy as they were, and I no longer cared which of them was in bed with me. I was happy and peaceful, and even the double flip seemed funny to me when we finally did it.

“You're terrific,” he said, as I lay thinking afterward, about what a strange gift this was, and how much they both meant to me, although I still preferred Peter to Paul, and knew I always would. But I also loved Paul's whimsy.

“I think you're bad for me,” I lied to him, wanting him to feel guilty, because I didn't. After all, this was all Peter's fault anyway. He had invented him, and sent him to me. If he hadn't wanted this to happen, he shouldn't have given him to me. But what if it was a test of some kind, of my chastity and fidelity? In that case, I had a serious problem, because as long as it was Peter's Klone I was sleeping with, and not some stranger, I didn't really care. For all intents and purposes, Paul appeared to be the same man, the same face, the same body, the same spirit. Only the wardrobe was different, and then there was the triple flip, which was even more different, and quite terrific.

“I am not bad for you,” Paul objected. “Don't make this into something it isn't, and doesn't have to be.” It sounded like gibberish to me.

“Then what is this? You explain it to me. Because I can't,” I said, feeling confused by what he was saying, and I was feeling.

“It's a fantasy. An extension of him. Besides, I give great jewelry. Which reminds me.” With that, he turned the light on, dug into the pocket of Peter's pajamas lying on the floor, and pulled out an enormous diamond bracelet and handed it to me.

“Oh my God, what is that?”

“What does it look like? It's not a tennis racket, or a pet snake. I stopped off at Tiffany on my way over.”

“Oh Paul … you really are crazy … but I love it.” I grinned from ear to ear as he put it on me. “Now I really should feel guilty. You're going to think you can just buy me.”

“I can't afford you. Only he can. Why don't you just marry him, Steph, and get it over with, instead of all this back and forth between your apartments, and hiding from the kids. It's a stupid waste of time. Besides, you love each other.”

“That's beside the point.”

“No, it's not. That is the point,” he said wisely.

“I'm not sure what the point is. I was married, and after thirteen years, Roger said he had never loved me. I can't go through that again.”

“He's a jerk, and you know it. Peter isn't.”

“No, but in any case, he hasn't asked me. And what would happen to us, if he did? That would mean curtains for us. No more jewelry.”

“Don't be so greedy. Besides, it would be up to him. He might still want me to be with you when he goes to California.”

“I doubt it,” I said honestly, wondering just how crazy I was, having this conversation with a Klone, not even a real person. But he was smart, almost as smart as Peter in some ways, and in my own way I loved him, though not as much as I loved Peter. At times, Paul was adorable, at other times, he just seemed like a poor imitation of Peter.

“He'd probably take you to California with him,” Paul said thoughtfully. “He would if he's smart, anyway. And if not, it's the quadruple flip for us forever. Worse things could happen to you. I think you really love him. Sometimes I think it's the only reason why you love me.” It was the truth, of course, but I hated to hurt his feelings. In some ways, Paul was so easily wounded. It was hard to remember he had wires instead of a heart.

“Anyway, I'm not going to marry him. So you're just going to have to keep buying me jewelry, and charging it to him forever. Get used to it.”

“The trouble is, I have,” he said gently, as we lay side by side, with his arm around me in the dark. I was glad he had come back by then, and I was beginning to realize how much I had missed him. He said things to me that Peter never would have. “I'd really miss you,” he said sadly, “if he didn't let me come back again.”

“Don't worry about it … let's get some sleep,” I said, yawning, and when he turned over on his side, I cuddled up next to him. There was something very vulnerable about him this time, which really touched me deeply. And five minutes later, he was sleeping soundly, as I lay next to him, thinking about the things he had said, and the things I was feeling. It was all so damnably confusing. It was like sleeping with two men, all rolled into one, and I was never quite sure where one man ended and the other began. It was the price I paid for sleeping with a Klone, a man made up of computer chips and wires. But there was more to Paul than met the eyes. There was always the quadruple flip to think about, and the jewelry. I smiled to myself as I fell asleep cuddled up next to him, happy that Peter had decided to send him.





Chapter Eight

For the next few days, I indulged myself totally. We did all the same things we had done before. We stayed in bed all day while the kids were at school. I postponed looking for a job till January. We did the triple flip all night, and he had a great time with the children on the weekend. We even took them skating at Rockefeller Center, and he wore a one-piece sky-blue spandex jumpsuit with rhinestones on the collar. It was fairly conservative for him, but he was a terrific skater, and everyone at the rink loved him.

He finally went to the office later one afternoon, to take care of some things for Peter. Peter had called several times from the West Coast, and seemed to be having a lot of business problems. This time I didn't say a word about Paul, or the fact that he was with me again. I figured that he either knew, or didn't want to know, so I kept my own counsel. And Paul was keeping me very busy. But this time it was different.

I was feeling tortured by loving both of them, and even the gifts Paul showered me with made me uncomfortable, especially knowing he was charging them to Peter. But that day, when he left for work, I called the psychiatrist I had seen briefly when Roger left me. The doctor seemed surprised to hear from me. It had been almost two years since I'd seen him, and I guess he had assumed that I had either killed myself, gone back to Roger, or found someone new to torture myself with. I was lucky, he had just had a cancellation, and told me he could see me in half an hour, if I could be there promptly, which I promised I would.

His office hadn't changed much in two years, the couch I sat on, facing him, seemed a little more worn, and the pictures on the wall seemed a little more depressing. He had lost more hair, and the carpet looked threadbare. Other than that, the place looked terrific. And he seemed happy to see me. And after the initial amenities, I decided to get to the point. I was feeling utterly confused about Peter and Paul. I was more in love with Peter than ever. He was everything I had ever wanted, and we got on perfectly when he was there. But when he wasn't, I was locked in this mad affair with Paul, my imaginary friend, as he called himself now, but the trouble was, he wasn't. He got more real to me every day, and I had him under my skin again in a way that really scared me, which was why I had come to see Dr. Steinfeld.