“What happens when you get to the end of things?”

1.     The Hotel Room at the Artisan

Emma was in the bathroom, meticulously applying her makeup. "I'm curious, David. How many people do you know that are going to be there?" she asked.

David had been breathing in the feeling of the understated luxury of their hotel room at The Artisan. He supposed he should feel guilty that she had paid for the room, but she had offered, or rather insisted, after he had suggested a less expensive inn further away from the auction.

He leaned against the door frame, his eyes now following Emma's precise movements as she put the finishing touches on her look, and, at the same time, playing as if he were not ogling her phenomenal body, dressed only in green panties.

"Well, there'll be a mix. Some colleagues from the firm, and probably the usual philanthropic crowd." He flashed her a crooked grin. "But you're the only one I'm really interested in impressing tonight."

Emma rolled her eyes. "Smooth talker." She capped her lipstick with a decisive click and turned to face him. “You’re staring so hard at my body I can feel your eyelashes.”

Evasively, he said, "I'm glad we decided to go together. I could never have gone alone. So, thank you again for agreeing.”

“Well, if I knew you were going to stare at me so intensely, I might have known how creepy you are.”

David stepped closer. "You look stunning. How can I not stare?" He reached out with his left hand, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, while his fingers on the other hand traced the form of her left breast. "I’ll be the luckiest guy there. You know, we could always skip the dinner..." His voice trailed off.

Emma laughed, swatting his arm. "Nice try, mister. But I didn't spend an hour getting ready just to stay home." She smoothed her hands over his lapels. "Although, if you play your cards right, maybe we can have an orgy later."

She slipped past him and stepped to the bed where her emerald gala dress lay waiting. She picked it up carefully and shimmied into it, adjusting the fabric with her fingertips until it hugged her curves just so.

He let out a low whistle of appreciation. "Breathtaking. Or better said, bewitching."

She smiled. "You know, flattery may get you somewhere."

Stepping up to her, David bent his head, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Just telling it like it is," he murmured. “God, you smell good. And nice tits, too.”

"Am I going to be accepted by these people?" Emma asked, abruptly backing away. "They obviously knew Sofie. I admit, I am a wee bit nervous."

David's brow furrowed slightly. "Why? You outclass them all in beauty, sexiness…and, dare I say, wealth."

"Cut the bullshit. You know damn well why," Emma replied, her fingers absently adjusting his tie. "I don't have any idea how these people think about our relationship. They know you. To them, I will be seen as your marriage destroyer."

Placing his hands on her shoulders, David said, "You can't think that way. I hardly know these people...most of them anyway. The few I do know will love you."

"And those who knew Sofie?"

"There will be lots of people and only a few who knew her. We never have to speak with them. And besides..."

"And besides?"

"And besides, if they really knew Sofie, they'll be happy she's not there."

Emma squinted. "Uh-huh. Sure. I almost believe you."

"Honey, she was a money-grubbing bitch," David said. "Always concerned about money. She could only talk about money. She couldn't hold a conversation with these people."

"These people?"

"These are cultured, highly educated people who would never mention money," David said.

Emma smiled. “So, it’s more like you are the problem.”

He was not sure what she meant by that, but he smiled. He said, “How did you know?” He paused, running a hand through his hair. "Obviously, with both of us together, we won’t have to worry about anything anymore. Let's get out of here."

2.     The Fundraiser at the Artisan

"Christ," Emma said, whispering to David. "They spend money on a place like this?"

David glanced around the opulent ballroom of the Athenaeum Club, a part of the Artisan Hotel where they were staying, taking in the high vaulted ceilings, the glittering chandeliers that cast a warm glow, and the impeccably dressed guests mingling over flutes of champagne, their laughter echoing through the grand space. A slight furrow creased his brow as he considered Emma's whispered remark.

Smiling, she said, “Did you design this place?”

"It's a bit over the top, I'll give you that," he said. "But these fundraisers bring in a lot of money for environmental causes. The wealthy donors expect a certain level of grandeur. And, no, this is not exactly the type of architecture I deal with."

“Well, maybe you should,” she said with a laugh.

He pointed. “According to our invitation, that’s our table.”

David nodded a polite greeting to the two couples already seated at the table, but who barely acknowledged his greeting. Pulling out her chair, he noticed the plush velvet cushion gave way beneath his touch. As Emma took her seat, the silk of her dress rustled softly. The scent of her perfume mingled with the aroma of hors d’oeuvres being passed by attentive servers. David could hardly control himself. He couldn't help but feel a burning warmth for how stunning she looked, the dress’s color bringing out the devilish, green of her eyes. But self-control had always been his mantra. Tonight was about enjoying each other’s company and acting like he was supporting a worthy cause. Worry was gnawing at the edges, but he ignored it.

The multiple tables, each with prearranged seating accommodating four couples, slowly filled with other couples, the murmur of conversation rising, and David recognized a few familiar faces from the previous year, their smiles polite but distant.

Indistinctly he tensed as Greta and George, old friends of Sofie's, approached the table, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. For the first time, he took a quick glance at the name assigned to the chair beside him, the embossed lettering seeming to mock him.

He saw the eyes of the approaching wobbly, immaculately-tuxedoed, elderly black man shamelessly scanning Emma’s body, his gaze lingering in a way that must have made her skin prickle. His wife, a fussily over-dressed white matron, glared at David first before she examined Emma, her scrutiny as sharp as the cut of her diamond earrings.

"David," she said coolly, sliding into the chair on his right, the fabric of her ostentatious striped dress whispering against the leather. "It's been a while."

“Greta. George. Good to see you both,” David replied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

As George struggled down into his seat next to his wife, he offered a curt nod before turning his attention to his place card, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

Greta’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, her lips pursing into a thin line, the red of her lipstick stark against her pale skin. She said, 'Well, David, this will be fun."

Emma looked at David with raised eyebrows, a question in her eyes. She leaned forward to look Greta in the eye and said, “Hello. I’m Emma,” her voice bright and friendly.

"Yes, I know.” Greta said, “I'm Greta."

Emma said, "Oh, how did you know? Have we met before?"

Greta smiled. "No." After a small pause, she said, "You know I love this annual art auction. It feels cultural. How about you?"

David watched Emma regard Greta's face, obviously trying to make some sort of assessment. Emma smiled and said, "I guess I wouldn't know since I have never been to this one. Perhaps you can guide me."

Greta said, "Oh, Emma…Emma, was it? Yes. Yes, of course. I can guide you. First and foremost, you simply must understand the rich tapestry of art history! It's all about the ecotones, you see.”

She looked up at the ceiling as she spoke, trans-like.

“Take Leonardo da Vinci's 'Mona Lisa' - it's the perfect ecotone between Renaissance idealism and psychological realism. And then we have Van Gogh's 'Starry Night,' which creates a stunning ecotone of emotional turbulence and cosmic wonder.

“Now, let's not forget Picasso! His 'Les Demoiselles d'Avignon' is the quintessential transition between traditional representation and avant-garde abstraction. It's simply revolutionary! And speaking of ecotones, Klimt's 'The Kiss' is a marvelous exemplification of symbolism and decorative art.”

David could see on Emma’s puzzled expression that she didn’t know whether she should laugh.

Greta continued, oblivious. “But if you want to truly appreciate the essences of artistic influence, you must look at Vermeer's 'Girl with a Pearl Earring.' It's the most exquisite ecotone between light and shadow, between intimacy and distance.

“And don't even get me started on the Impressionists! So who knows what we’ll find here tonight. It’s exciting.”

She turned to her husband. “George, don’t you think so?”

George was silent for a few seconds. He said, “Yes, of course.”

Greta said, “Oh, George, you weren’t even listening, were you?”

George seemed to want to change the conversation. He leaned forward to look past his wife at David. He said, “David, I wonder if you remember our conversation last time.”

David looked doubtful.

George said, “It was about Wheeler.”

David nodded. Again doubtful. He said, “Wheeler. Yes.”

He had been watching the other two couples to his left, hoping for some means of escaping this unwelcome entrapment, but they were occupied with each other, either because they hadn’t seen each other for a long time, or they were good friends, or they were antagonists who wanted to win domination over each other; it was unclear to David. But their conversation was too intense to break into. Their rudeness irked him most because he needed them.

George said, "Wheeler was right, David. Reality's not fixed, man! We create it by observing. They keep us distracted with nonsense while they shape reality in the background. It's like the matrix, and we're the ones programming it! Wheeler knew this. He was talking about the edge of the simulation, the 'end of things'! They're manipulating what we see, rewriting history, maybe even messing with the fabric of reality itself!"

Greta said, “George, you’re drunk. You’re a musician.” She turned to Emma. “He’s a composer. He’s a music professor at the university, you see.”

Interrupting her, George said, "And Miss Editor, you are a bookish snob. Why don't you talk about books instead of playing like you know something about culture?" Then, without waiting for an answer, he said, “And get this, David. Each of us might be living in our own private universe. Wheeler couldn't figure out how we all share the same reality, because we don't!

“But here's the kicker, David. It’s pregeometry. Wheeler knew that everything we think is real just vanishes into nothingness at its core. Now they're building things to manipulate the fabric of reality itself! They're trying to reach the 'end of things' that Wheeler talked about. Remember he said, “’What happens when we get to the end of things?’ Once they do, they'll have total control over everything - past, present, and future. Open your eyes, David, to the truth!"

David said, “Thanks, George. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

Greta smirked and said to Emma, “Yes, keep your eyes open, Emma.”

David was immediately thankful for the waiters’ interruptions with their water questions and the menus and more questions, and their exaggerated stories about the wines. He glanced at Emma’s face as she squinted at him, obviously bewildered by this strange pair.

As the dinner progressed, the clink of silverware against china punctuating the stilted conversation, David found himself engaged in small talk about the food and the weather, carefully navigating away from the minefield of personal questions, his palms growing damp. He could sense Emma's growing discomfort, shown by her silence, her eyes flitting between him and Greta with a puzzled grimace. Or was she simply amused?

Finally, the auction yammering began at the end of the ballroom, the air buzzing with excited chatter. As Greta and George rose to follow the others to the auction items, Greta said, “David, you’re a professional gambler. Are you putting some big money on some exquisite art for your children, or are you still broke?”

David felt his face flush. He opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by other couples at their table excusing themselves to go bid on items.

David stood and said, "So, Emma, my dear, shall we go up with the rest and look at the art?"

Emma didn’t get up. Looking up at David, the chandeliers intensifying the extraordinary green in her eyes, she said quietly, "Professional Gambler? Children?"