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A collection of 13 short stories.
asked. He nodded and slid an arm around her waist. She kissed his temple. Out in the winter night, a dog barked once. She sighed. "It seems like only yesterday, doesn't it?" she said. He drew in faint breath. "I don't think so," he said. "Oh, you." She punched him gently on the arm. "This is Artie," said his agent. "Guess what?" Owen gasped. "No!" He found her in the laundry room, stuffing bedclothes into the washer. "Honey!" he yelled. Sheets went flying. "It's happened!" he cried.
true then. There was no distinct remembrance of it. From the second he'd gone through the doorway until now, all was a virtual blank. Yes, true! He knew it now. Interims were void; time was rushing him to his script-appointed end. He was a player, yes, as Artie said, but the play had already been written. He sat in the dark train compartment, staring out the window. Far below slept moon-washed Nice and Alison; across the aisle slept George and Linda, grumbled Carole in a restless sleep. How
He forced it back into its darkness. "-tising business," Coulter finished. "What?" he asked. "Said I trust things are goin' well in the advertising business." David cleared his throat. "Oh, yes," he said. "Fine." He always forgot about the lie he'd told Coulter. When the train arrived he sat in the No Smoking car, knowing that Coulter always smoked a cigar en route. He didn't want to sit with Coulter. Not now. All the way to the city he sat looking out the window. Mostly he watched road
it was. What if, in entering Franco's, he had, accidentally, entered a universe one jot removed from the one he'd existed in at the office? What if, the thought expanded, people were, without knowing it, continually entering these universes one jot removed? What if he himself had continually entered them and never known until today – when, in an accidental entry, he had gone one step too far? He closed his eyes and shuddered. Dear Lord, he thought; dear, heavenly Lord, I have been working too
after another fell before his bullheaded determination. He stopped, looked at Mason, then started pacing again. Once he turned on the outside spotlight and looked to make sure it was not imagination. The light illumined the broken ship. It glowed strangely, like a huge, broken tombstone. Ross snapped off the spotlight with a soundless snarl. He turned to face them. His broad chest rose and fell heavily as he breathed. “All right,” he said. “It’s your lives too. I can’t decide for all of us.