“I don't care what he drinks. And why can't I stay here?”

“Because I'm turning over a new leaf. I think he was really upset about you this time. I don't want to screw up a relationship that's important to me, even if he did send you.”

“Isn't it a little late for that? Besides, you don't even think he loves you.” He sounded mean when he said it. It was the vodka talking. Or maybe the sherry.

“That's not the point. Whether he loves me or not, I love him. And you can't sleep here.”

“I can't go back to the shop,” he said stubbornly. “I don't have the keys, and it's closed on Sundays.’

“Then stay at the Plaza. You have his American Express card. Charge it to Peter.”

“Only if you stay there with me.”

“Forget it … and besides, I don't have a sitter,” I said, distracted, as the pasta started burning. All the water had boiled off while we discussed the iguana and whether or not he could sleep there.

“Then I'll stay here,” he said practically. “I'll he comes back from California.”

“Paul,” I said firmly, looking him squarely in the eyes, “you can stay for dinner, but after that, you're leaving.” And I wasn't kidding, as Charlotte walked into the room and looked at both of us with a curious expression.

“Who's Paul?” she asked, wondering what game we were playing. “What happened to dinner?”

“I burned it,” I said through clenched teeth, glaring at both of them, as Sam wandered in, holding the iguana.

“Get that thing out of here!” I screamed at him, as I dropped the pot of burned pasta in the sink. It was beyond salvation.

“I hate you!” Sam said, as he went back to his room with Iggy.

“You really should let him keep it,” Paul said gently, “it means a lot to him.”

“Get out of my life!” I said, wanting to scream or cry or hit him.

“You won't let me,” he said, smiling at Charlotte. “Your mother gets very nervous when she cooks, doesn't she? Do you want me to whip something up?” he offered helpfully, as I pulled a frozen pizza out of the freezer.

“No, thank you.” He took out the liar's dice then, and started playing with Charlotte, as I banged and slammed my way around the kitchen.

It was nine o'clock by the time I served dinner, and I somehow managed to burn the pizza.

It was after ten when I finished cleaning up the kitchen. Sam was asleep in his room by then, and he still had the iguana with him. When I went to kiss him good night, I saw it lying next to him, on the pillow, and closed the door gently so it couldn't escape. Paul was going to have to take it with him. I was never going to let Sam keep it.

“Is he asleep?” Paul asked gently, as I came back to the kitchen. He was working on my only bottle of sapphire gin. I had been saving it for Peter, but it didn't seem to matter as much suddenly. Peter had said we “had to talk,” which was always a death knell. He was probably going to dump me when he came back from California, if he hadn't already. He probably just hadn't had the guts to tell me. I remembered how quiet he had been when we walked in the park in the snow, and the way he had looked at me after he saw the ruby ring Paul gave me.

I poured myself a small glass of the gin, poured some tonic in it, and threw in a couple of ice cubes.

“I thought you didn't drink.” He looked shocked when he saw it.

“I don't. But I think I need it.”

“How about a massage?”

“How about taking your iguana and going to a hotel, without me?” I had had all I could take for one night, two burned dinners, a romance on the rocks, and a giant lizard loose in my son's bedroom, not to mention this lunatic I'd been sleeping with, who had probably cost me my relationship with Peter. And Paul wasn't even human. My life was a shambles. I'd been shaving my legs religiously for two years, had sworn off blueberries, had met the finest man I'd ever known, and managed to screw it up somehow by having an affair with R2D2.

“I think you should go to see Dr. Steinfeld,” Paul said sympathetically as he watched me sipping my gin and tonic.

“Maybe we all should.” I was too tired to pursue the subject further. All I wanted was to see Peter, instead of Paul, sitting comfortably in my kitchen in his scarlet leggings. “Don't those things itch? I can't wear them.” I was slowly getting drunk on one drink and didn't care. My life was over anyway. I had lost Peter.

“Yes, they do,” Paul said conversationally, indifferent to the desperation I was feeling. “I'll take them off in a minute.”

“Not here,” I said pointedly, and he smiled.

“Of course not. I meant in the bedroom.” I sat back in the kitchen chair, and groaned, with my eyes closed. Why had Peter done this to me? Why couldn't he have picked up someone else in Paris and inflicted his Klone on some other unsuspecting woman? I was in love with Jekyll and Hyde. Jekyll mostly, and he didn't want me. And I couldn't get Hyde the hell out of my life, my hair, or my kitchen. And I was exhausted from trying. “Where's Charlotte?” he asked with mild concern as he got up and stretched.

“Asleep.” She had gone to bed right after Sam had.

“So early?”

“I asked her to clean up her room and do her homework. That's like giving her nitrous oxide. She passed out as soon as I said it.” It also explained why the apartment was so peaceful.

I finished the gin and tonic and stood up, looking at him, wondering if there was any hope of getting rid of him that night, but I didn't think so. It might just be easier to let him sleep there, one last time, and then throw him and his iguana out in the morning.

“Why don't you sleep in the guest room?” I suggested, giving in, but not completely. He could have my guest room, but not my virtue, or my heart. They belonged to Peter. I was sure now. I was not going to be swayed again, into believing that I loved Paul. I didn't. And then I remembered. The guest room was full of Christmas presents, and it would have taken hours to remove them. I had been piling them up in there for days, and I had nowhere else to put them. They weren't wrapped yet, and I didn't want the kids to see them. You couldn't even find the bed in there. The situation was distressing. “I just remembered. You can't sleep there. You can sleep on the floor of my bedroom.”

“I can't,” he said convincingly, as my whole body sagged listening to him. I was losing the man I loved, and couldn't get rid of the Klone he had inflicted on me. “I can't sleep on the floor,” he explained, “it's bad for my wiring. It distorts it.”

“I'll call an electrician for you tomorrow. That's your only option.”

“You're all heart, Steph.”

“Thank you.” I turned off the lights, put my glass in the sink, and he followed me to my bedroom. And as soon as I closed the door, he stripped off the red spandex leggings. I tried not to see how great his legs were. Having been made with great precision and great care, his legs were every bit as splendid as Peter's.

I disappeared into the bathroom and put on a nightgown and a robe, and tied it. I would have slept in my ski clothes if I could have. I was determined to resist him.

“ ‘Are you cold?” he asked, looking surprised by the bathrobe.

“No, frigid,” I said simply, and climbed into bed, as he went to brush his teeth. He was good about those things, even though he had no need to go to the dentist. His teeth were white and perfect, and were actually made of porcelain over some very rare metal. He had explained it to me once when I asked him. He had no idea what it was to get a filling. Lucky devil.

And when he returned from the bathroom, the lights were off and I pretended to be sleeping. I was lying on my side at the edge of the bed, and I fully expected him to sleep on the floor, which was another sign of insanity on my part. He had no intention of it. And within seconds, I felt him slip into bed beside me. I couldn't see if he was wearing Peter's pajamas, but prayed he was. And then I heard him strike a match, and knew what he was doing. He was lighting the candle, but I didn't dare say anything for fear he would know I wasn't sleeping, and then a moment later, I felt him gently touch my shoulders and start to massage them. I lay there, tense, hating him for being so nice to me. But I knew there was a reason for it. I knew exactly what he wanted, and I was determined that, for once, no matter how enticing he was, he wouldn't get it.

But I had to admit as he massaged my shoulders, and rubbed my back, it was incredibly relaxing. And after a while, in spite of myself, I sighed, and rolled over on my stomach.

“Better?” he whispered in the candlelight, and the sound, of his voice always made me feel sensual and happy, and tonight it made me feel just a little sad. He sounded just like Peter.

He moved closer to me to massage my arms, and intent on resisting him, I stiffened. “Don't come any closer. I have a loaded gun in the pocket of my nightgown.”

“So shoot me.”

“It'll screw up your wiring forever.”

“I think you're worth it.” But this time, even though I loved the sound and feel of him, I wasn't swayed. I wasn't hooked. I wasn't swooning. All I could think about was Peter. “What are you thinking?” he asked as he worked his way down my back again, and then massaged my buttocks.

“I was thinking about him,” I admitted sleepily, my voice funny from the pressure of his hands on my back. “I miss him. Do you suppose he'll come back … to me, I mean? … I think he hates me.”

“No, he doesn't,” he said softly. “I think he loves you.”

“Are you serious?” I asked, rolling over on my back to look at him. It was the nicest thing he'd said all night, and then I realized it was a ruse to make me look at him, as he leaned over and kissed me. “Don't …” I whispered in the candlelight, but the word was lost as he continued to kiss me. I didn't forget Peter then, only myself, as his hands began to move slowly beneath my nightgown. “Paul … don't … I can't….”

“Just one last time … please … and then I swear I won't come back again….” But this time, when he said it, I knew I wouldn't miss him. Our time was over.

“We shouldn't …” I tried valiantly to resist him, and then wondered what difference it would make. Just one last time … for old times’ sake … something to remember. And before I could stop him, he had started making love to me, and my dressing gown and nightgown disappeared somewhere onto the floor, as I abandoned myself to him, knowing full well I shouldn't. But it was hard to remember anything as my body sang at his touch. It was a song I knew I would long remember. It would be something to dream of, after both Peter and Paul left me. Just one more memory of a time of madness.

And as I gave in to him completely, he held me in his arms and I could feel him preparing to soar into the air and do one last quadruple flip with me. I smiled as I felt it begin, too transported by him to resist it. It felt as though we were suspended in midair forever, and as we prepared to land gracefully, as we always did, I felt him move only slightly differently, but just enough to change both our velocity and our direction, and before I knew what had happened to me, we had bounced off the bed, hit a chair, and crashed into a table, with arms and legs everywhere, a foot suddenly near my ear, and as we fell like a meteorite falling to earth, I heard a crash and saw his head at an appalling angle. I wondered, as we lay there, gasping for air, if I was finally going to see him with his head off.

I tried to sit up, but he was lying on top of me, and I couldn't. ‘Oh shit, what happened?” I could hardly get the words out, and wondered if all my ribs were broken. “Are you okay?” It was a useless question. The chair was on top of us as well, and he looked as though he were eating my nightgown. The sound of whatever it was he was saying to me was muffled. I pulled the nightgown off his face, and realized he was going to get a black eye from the chair leg. “What did you say?”

“I said, are you okay?”

“I'm not sure yet.” He grinned sheepishly at me, and propped himself up, wincing, on one elbow. “I think I moved wrong.”

“Maybe I did.” It wasn't like him to miss it. “Would ice help?” I actually felt sorry for him, as much as his wires, I suspect he had bruised his ego. He was definitely not as agile as he had been. Maybe it was the vodka. He was used to bourbon.

I went to get him some ice, and a snifter of brandy. I knew that sometimes he liked that. And there was no Yquem left. He took a sip of the brandy, and I put the ice gingerly on his neck and shoulder. It made him seem almost human.

“Steph …” He was looking at me strangely as I ministered to him, and I propped him up on pillows. He looked so sweet and vulnerable, and I suddenly panicked, wondering what Peter would say if I broke him.