PAUL

They softly trace the line of my jaw. "You should go on more business trips."

"Why? You got something going on the side when I'm gone?"

Oof. Charlie's playful jab to my gut is going to leave a mark.

"When you get back, you tend to be ... more energetic." Charlie's dark sultry eyes sparkle.

"I think the word you are looking for is, randy."

They put their lips close to my ear, their warm and moist breath just below my earlobe succeeds in getting Charlie the desired physical response. "The word I am looking for is ... again."

My eyes light up. "Who's calling who energetic?"

"Whom. As in, the person upon which the verb is acted. Start acting."

I proceed to bring down the house.

---

Charlie is scrolling through pics on my phone as the fog of sleep slowly lifts from my head. "Some good shots here. You should come out on some of my shoots, I could hire you as a secondary photographer." I give them the one-eyebrow lift. The sandman refuses to relinquish my right eye.

"I'm not good with people. Your ... clients tend to be demanding and arrogant."

"Weddings do bring out the best, and the worst, in people."

"Like our wedding. Uncle Buck really made an ass of himself."

"Stop apologizing for him. There are 8 billion people on this planet; people like that exist. I won't define my relationship with you by his myopic reality."

I grunt in acknowledgement. "I forgot to tell you. I brought something home from New York."

Those dark eyes linger for a moment on parts south. "No. You didn't forget. Anything." Charlie raises my phone and the camera clicks. "You're cute when you're still half asleep." They turn the phone around and show me a suitably PG-rated shot of my dysfunctional right eye.

"Still in my suitcase, love."

Charlie puts the phone down on the bed, leans over and gives me a soft kiss, their hand exploring some rather X-rated territory.

No response.

"Wake up, darling." They pull away and pad to the other room. I force my right eye to open just enough for a good stereoscopic view of one very fine ...

Charlie turns their head and winks as they disappear naked around the corner.

CHARLIE

I give Paul a promising wink and make my way through the living room to the entry where we had hastily abandoned his luggage. The lush carpet muffles the steps of my naked feet as the house drapes my unclothed body like a brand new suit.

Our house. Our sanctuary, our own private enclave, the ramparts of our little castle guarding our marital bliss against the harsh realities of a cruel and indifferent world.

I put the suitcase on the bench next to the double front door. Paul is always bringing something back, a gift, an apology for being away; an expression of regret and longing that gets smoothed over the night he gets back. The shelf above the bench displays previous gifts: a replica of the wooden horse in Homer's tales of Troy, complete with trap door; a pair of dragons carved in jade; a grotesque Norwegian troll carved in candle wax. Paul's gift this time is likely a cheap plastic imitation of the Statue of Liberty from some tourist shop.

It's a quality suitcase with stout locks. I spin the dials like some old game show as a whisper of the bitter winter chill outside tries to slither in from the entry's portico, through the seams between the door and the house.

The lock snaps open with a sharp snick. I open the suitcase. A gift-wrapped present the size and shape of a coffee table book, likely of my New York hometown, sits in the maw of that suitcase.

Carelessly draped across my present is a delicate skimpy thong.

My chest grips me like an iron lung, my breath comes up short. I stare at the intruder draped across my present like a distorted Killer Klown's grin, daring me to claim my prize. I pick up the petite homewrecker with my little finger and walk back to the bedroom, the winter chill from the front door stalking me like a funeral dirge - the luggage and the gift abandoned and forgotten once more.

I stop at the bedroom door, twirling the thong in my fingers.

"Not exactly my size, sport."

Paul's angelic face does not even have the grace to show any guilt.

"Uh, yeah ... ?"

"Seriously? We're going to do this by the numbers?"

"I don't know ... "

"That's my question. This is obviously not the surprise. Well, not the intended one."

"Where did you ..."

"In your goddamn luggage, sport!"

Finally, his eyes get large. "I have no idea what that is."

"No? Shall I model it for you? What's her name?!"

"No. You can't be ... No. I mean, yes, I know what it ... but I never ..."

I almost feel sorry, he is such a lovable little boy, but ... "How long? Is this why you take so many 'business' trips lately? Am I not enough anymore?" That last one chokes me silent for a second.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT, I MEAN, I'VE NEVER SEEN ..." I step back, seeing a Paul I've never seen before. Not the cool calm rational Paul I married. The Paul I thought I married.

We stare at each other for a long moment, sizing each other up.

He breaks first. "The luggage. There must be a mistake, a switch-up or something."

I almost buy it. I want to believe it. "Same luggage? Same gift? It's a coffee table book of New York, right?"

The logic hits him between the eyes. I throw him his thong. Grab a bath robe. "Stay away".

I hit the shower. Lock the door.

PAUL

The thong lies on the floor next to the bed. I stare at it, willing it to give up its secrets, or just vanish from this reality. Its false accusations hang in the air like a noose. There is no way that was in my luggage. But the book. How'd they know, if it wasn't my luggage?

I get up, avoid the fabric on the floor, grab my robe against the chill in the air, and head downstairs. I hear the shower as I pass the bathroom, and, more out of habit, reach for the door knob. Charlie's face when they said 'Stay away' flashes before my eyes and my hand jerks back as if struck by lightning. I back away, nearly tripping at the head of the stairs. Downstairs, I find my luggage, still open, the howling blizzard outside gaining strength.

My luggage. My clothes. My gift.

All mine, save the thong.

The picture book came from in a little independent bookstore somewhere near Chinatown or the Lower East Side, across the river from Charlie's old neighborhood. It's not a Top Ten things to see in New York; it has a lot of local photographs of the neighborhoods of New York City. The present still lays there where I put it, a lifetime ago, on top of everything else.

I take the present, close the luggage, drop the gift on the table in front of the fireplace, head to the kitchen and start a pot.

The wind is getting fierce. Outside, the snow is flying so thick the light from the patio deck barely reaches the trees at the end of the property. Listening to the drumbeat of the running water upstairs, my reality constricts to just me and Charlie and the house, the winter storm an impassible boundary to a different world, a reality that threatens to take Charlie out of my picture. I pull out the griddle and frying pan and begin to prep breakfast. For two. Hoping this meal isn't our last.

CHARLIE

Hands against the shower wall; my head under the waterfall massaging my scalp; water cascading down my back and chest: I drift. Somewhere safe, away from all the pain this world dishes out, the banal cruelties of strangers, the betrayals of past lovers. Paul was different. I wanted him to be different. They say, watch out for the nice ones, the ones who flatter, the ones who make you laugh.

But they also say people like me aren't real, we aren't authentic. Synthetic people, they call us. Deny someone their humanity, and they lose their identity, their basic human rights. Isn't this what they did to my great-grandparents, a hundred years ago, before they hauled them off to the Camps in cattle cars? Scapegoats, to assuage the fears of idiots.

I thought he was different. It's the eyes that fool you. You look in their eyes and it is supposed to be a mirror to their soul; you can tell a good man from a bad man by looking into their eyes. I believed that. I had seen dead eyes so many times before, I thought I knew. But the mirror only shows you what you want to see.

Before Paul, all I saw were ghosts.

I beat my fist into the shower tiles; and stifle a cry of pain, I think I break something. I look at the offending tile, one that now shows a hairline crack.

Fuck.

This is MY house, dammit. We built this house, we built our life, together, Paul and I. He broke the covenant, not me. But justice isn't blind; it never was. They'll look at him, they'll look at me. All the right words will be spoken, but there will be no justice, because I'm not human, so the words will be empty and my life ends. Quick or slow, we all die. We're born, we live, we bleed, we die.

THE KITCHEN

Charlie walks into a kitchen smelling of eggs and bacon and flapjacks and maple syrup. And hickory from a fire in the fireplace. They don't look at him; they sit at the table watching the snow toss and twist and swirl and sweep across the deck Charlie and Paul built a long summer ago, in a world of sugarplum fairies and toy soldiers. But the holiday season is over and late January is a cold dead place. Paul serves up breakfast and they sit and eat in silence. The dancing snow sings a low song of lament for the two lovers.

After awhile, the chorus moves off, further out into the yard.

"The blueberry jacks are good."

"Thanks. I added a little more baking soda to make them fluffier."

"Yeah, that did the trick."

Charlie pokes at the bacon, takes a sip of orange juice. Fresh squeezed.

They look up at Paul. "Do you know where it came from?"

Paul takes a deep breath, the last gasp of a condemned man. "No. I've been racking my brain and I just don't understand it."

Charlie goes back to their bacon. It's crisped to perfection; the eggs couldn't be more sunny-side up at a five-star restaurant. They hold back a tear.

"You haven't started drinking again?" Charlie says delicately.

"What?? God, no! Charlie, I'd never put you through that. I ruined enough lives the first time around."

"Didn't you once tell me you'd suffer blackouts, couldn't remember what happened the night before? Could this be one of those times?"

"No, no, god, no. I mean, yeah, when I was drinking, I'd have those blackouts, and I wouldn't remember what I did, but I knew I had been drinking. I've been dry since before we met."

"Tell me everything you did, from the moment you left to the moment you stepped back in the house."

Paul goes through the entire trip. In their head, Charlie is mapping out his activities, in a city they knew so well. Paul's story is consistent, there are no gaps, no room for blackouts.

They believe him. But.

"It's your luggage."

"Yes."

"Maybe somebody got to it, put that ... thing in your luggage when you weren't watching."

"What? Why? ... Charlie, I want to believe that, but, why? It's not like I have enemies; no one is trying to ruin my life. I've already shown myself quite competent at doing that myself."

"Sometimes it isn't personal. Sometimes people just do it because it amuses them."

Paul sees the pain in Charlie's eyes. He didn't inflict it, but somehow he brought it out.

"I could never understand why people ... "

"Some just do."

Charlie looks up, into Paul's eyes. It is still there, his soul. None of it makes any sense, but they decide to hang on to that. To trust in their gut, to have faith.

"Probably at the airport, after you checked your bags."

"Yeah. Makes sense. It would be about the only time."

AND THEN THERE WAS THIS ...

The couple spent the day talking. Like an old married couple. The blizzard eventually blew itself out and they grabbed a pair of shovels and cleared the deck, then snuggled in a thick flannel blanket on the deck swing, looking out over their backyard, planning the gardening for next spring, supping hot toddies to keep warm.

Lovemaking that night was slow, gentle, and a little desperate at first.

Paul woke up, the morning sun warming the bedspread. Charlie was already awake, looking at the pictures he took on his phone. They were sipping a mocha and pointed to his nightstand where they had put up a morning latte for Paul.

"You didn't mention you went to the Statue." Charlie showed Paul the photograph.

Paul stared. Thought hard. He couldn't remember that picture; he couldn't remember going there.

"It's a good picture. This is the one we should print out."

"Yeah. Ok. When I left the hotel, I was running maybe a half hour early. I know how much the Statue of Liberty means to you and your family so I had the taxi driver take me out there for a quick photo."

Charlie looked at Paul, cocked their head, "Thanks. I like how the sun backlights the Statue. You really have a flair for it." They gave Paul a quick kiss. "Breakfast? My treat."

"Cool!"

Charlie threw on a robe and headed downstairs. There was no way he made a quick trip out to the Island, snapped a picture, got back, crossed Manhattan, then the East River to JFK in 30 minutes. The ferry ride alone would have taken much longer.

And his flight was at 1:39 pm. Charlie didn't need to check the time stamp to know the picture was taken late in the afternoon, with the sun behind the Statute, probably the day before.

That picture was going to look real nice. First thing everyone sees, every time they enter the house. Last thing they see when they leave.

And there was no way in Hell anyone would dare take it down.