He took a deep, openmouthed breath, inhaling that incredible scent, letting it dance across the tip of his tongue. He was still in the fog of that in-between state, not fully awake but no longer catatonic, his memories of the night broken into visual flashes—like images on shattered glass, of soft, slender, wonderfully curved body parts and of furious, physical, gymnastic sexual acts. He knew it was a night he’d never forget, even though he still couldn’t understand exactly how it had occurred. In truth, nights like that didn’t happen to Charles, not since the divorce—and certainly not before. Twelve hours ago, he’d have bet his last dollar that nights like that didn’t happen in real life to anyone.

He rolled onto his back, stretching his arms above his head, getting the kinks out of his aching shoulders. It was then that he also noticed the music; soft, classical, mostly violins with the hint of a viola, drifting through the air around him in gentle waves. He recognized it immediately—a Bach concerto, recorded in 2007 by the Philadelphia Orchestra—because it was from his own collection. Not digital, of course, not bastardized by some computer software, but real, the vibration of a needle against vinyl on the record player in his living room one floor down—the way God, and the Philadelphia Orchestra, had intended music to be played.

His smile grew, and he opened his eyes. He was lying in his bed in the bedroom on the upper floor of his town house two blocks from Harvard Square, but still everything around him looked foreign. His sheets, normally stiff and tucked into the corners even after a night’s sleep, were mussed and twisted. His pillows were in even worse shape, like they’d barely survived a hurricane. The one under his head had mostly escaped its pillowcase and was leaking down feathers all over the bed. The other pillow, which usually remained untouched on the opposite side, was bent nearly in half, and in the middle of the pillowcase he could see an unmistakable, two-inch lipstick stain. Bright red, hell, blood red, like something you’d see on the cover of a cheap, pulpy romance novel. Evidence, Charles realized, that it hadn’t just been a dream. It was all real; she was real, and if the music was any indication, she was still in his house.

He quickly rose to a sitting position. His head pounded at the motion, and he felt cobwebs at the back of his mouth. He looked over at his bed table, searching for his phone, which might tell him the time; but the device wasn’t where he’d usually left it, and he had no idea where it might be—or even if he’d brought the damn thing home with him the night before. Another lost phone—it was beginning to become a habit.