—

Just as suddenly as it appeared, the weight left her chest. The heavy, molecular immunology textbook that she had been reading thudded to the floor. The woman sat up from the sofa, momentarily disoriented, sweating, shivering in the coolness of her apartment’s living room. She became aware of an unfamiliar sound, not screams or gunfire, but a penetrating ring. It was her doorbell, which had been pressed possibly twice in the eighteen months she’d been living there.

Still confused, the woman unsteadily got to her feet and walked to the narrow entryway of her apartment. Who on earth could be ringing her doorbell? Looking through the peephole, she recognized her visitor. She turned and leaned her back against the door, stunned anew. The doorbell’s raucous sound echoed around her mostly empty apartment, seeming louder than it actually was, but as she recovered from the anxiety and tension of the nightmare, it was easier to bear. She fortified herself with a deep breath as her visitor gave up on the doorbell and loudly knocked three times in quick succession. He always was very persistent. With a sigh, she turned and opened both locks on her door and pulled it open.

“Pia!” said George Wilson. “You’re home. Terrific! How are you?” His lips were pulled back in an uncertain smile as he vainly tried to look her in the eye and gauge her reaction to his unexpected appearance on her doorstep. Then his line of sight went south, taking in her nearly naked body, and his smile broadened. At least the sight of her was welcoming. To him she was as alluring as she’d always been. He held a sad-looking bunch of roses.

“George, what the hell are you doing here?” demanded Pia Grazdani, pronouncing each word separately, uninterested in hiding her intense irritation. Her hands were jammed down on her hips with her jaw jutting forward, lips pressed together. Only when she followed George’s gaze did she remember she was dressed in only a sports bra and panties, exposed to the apartment-complex’s hallway, where some of the neighbors’ children were playing. At her feet and extending over to the couch where she had fallen asleep was a trail of running gear: shoes, ankle-high socks, a white sweatshirt, running shirt and shorts, and a small backpack. On the coffee table was an iPod with earphones.

“You better come in,” she said with uncamouflaged resignation, backing into the sparsely but tastefully furnished room. “What are the flowers for?” Her tone reflected her exasperation.

“What do you think? It’s April twenty-first. It’s your birthday. Happy birthday, Pia.” George smiled, then shrugged defensively and busied himself by shutting the door behind him. He stood his roller bag up on its end and telescoped the handle.

“Oh,” Pia said simply. “It’s my birthday?” Pia was aware of the date, but had done nothing to acknowledge it. She retreated back into the interior of the apartment, picking up her running gear as she went.

George took in the lovely swell of Pia’s derriere, appreciating that her figure was just as stunning in reality as it had been in his imagination over the far too many months since he’d last seen her. He watched as she quickly pulled on the clothes she’d rescued from the floor. When she plopped down on the sofa, clutching her knees to her chest with her bare feet poised on the coffee table’s edge, she looked across the room at him. It was painfully clear she was less than thrilled about his surprise visit. George’s eyes swept the apartment. It was of generous size, sparsely appointed with what appeared to be new, nondescript furniture. To George it looked as if no one lived there. There were no knickknacks, no photos, just a stack of medical textbooks on an otherwise empty dining-room table.