She awoke two hours later to the delicious smell of something Italian cooking in the other room. For a moment, she pondered how awkward dinner would be and wondered whether he would notice if she locked herself in her apartment for the next three days. But hunger and common decency got the better of her, and she lumped it into the kitchen to see Eli hustling about like an especially personable house frau. Walking up behind him, she put her arms around him and rested her chin on the top of his shoulder. She spoke after only a moment.

"Ugh. I was thinking you might be gone when I got up."

He laughed. "As your little episodes go, that one was pretty tame."

"You think I'm getting better?"

"Yes." He sounded confident. "Better and happier. I haven't seen many fantastical things in my life, but I've seen lots of people afraid, some even terrified and under unbelievable stress. You're handling what you've been through the last months like a champ."

"I think you're just saying that," she whispered, "but I appreciate it, anyway."

She assumed there would be teasing, but there was none. During dinner and after, Eli was at his most gentle and thoughtful. They spoke little at first, but through the course of dinner, their chatting resumed its usual tempo. Neither of them said a word about her two earlier indiscretions, her shameless pass at him and her even sillier accusation.

Dinner was fabulous. She kidded herself that she might consider taking Eli on fulltime, but even to joke about such a thing at that moment would have been awkward. It was one of several pithy thoughts and clever bon mots that came to mind as they ate, but which remained unspoken. She always came up with the best one-liners at the most inappropriate times.

After they'd eaten and cleaned up the mess, Eli settled on her tiny couch in front of the television, and she joined him a moment later with a bottle of wine and with the straightjacket draped over her shoulders. It somehow seemed appropriate, and he laughed at her choice.

"So, what's this show of yours about?" he asked.

"It's sort of a noir mystery and thriller about this duck named Murder Bird."

"And he's what? Some sort of serial killer? Hitman?"

"No, it's his name. He's never murdered anyone. In fact, I'm not sure there's been a single murder in five seasons ... no, wait, there've been one or two."

"And who plays this duck?"

"It's a cartoon. I don't know who does the voice, but the art is wonderful. It has this gritty, dark Dashiell Hammett-esque feel about it."

"But with a duck? But hold on ... why is he named Murder Bird?"

"Oh ... uh," she hesitated. "Okay, the story is set in this world where everyone is a duck, and they're all named 'Duck.'"

"All of them?"

"Every one."

"Hold on. How about ducks in France? Wouldn't they all be named 'Canard?'"

"Nope ... every single duck in the world is named 'Duck,' and even ducks overseas all speak English ... but, you know, with the appropriate cheesy accent."

"And they're all named Duck ... except for Murder Bird?"

"Right ... so, when ... and this is the funny part ... when his mom was getting ready to give birth ...."

"Lay an egg."

"What?" she asked.

"Lay an egg. Ducks lay eggs."

"No, no ... ducks in this world give birth like normal people. Anyway ...." She raised a hand as he again moved to speak. "Do you want to tell this story?"

"No. Sorry."

"Okay, when she was pregnant, like most couples, she and her husband spent the typical time trying to select a name, you know ... him, 'let's name him, 'Duck,' after your dad' ... her 'no, I want to name him, 'Duck,' after your father' ... that kind of stuff."

"You're shitting me?"

"No, really, Eli ... it's high art. Universities teach courses on this show. There was an entire episode where Murder Bird was trying to track down this counterfeiter named 'Duck' at a hotel in San Francisco. Every few minutes, the desk clerk who would come back with, 'what was that name again'? It's hilarious."

"But 'Murder Bird'?"

"Right, like I said, his parents were trying to pick out a name for their baby, and they went through the typical, 'how about, Duck?' ... 'No, I never liked that name.' 'How about, Duck?' ... 'No, too ethnic.' 'How about, Duck?' ... 'Let's add that one to the shortlist.' And then, out of the blue, 'how about, Murder Bird?' ... 'Oh! let's call him that.'"

"You're shitting me?"

"No. It's great. You'll love it."

The first episode they watched was one of her favorites, and after another two episodes, she found Eli was laughing and chuckling along with her at the appropriate moments. At some point, she wasn't sure when, she realized she had jettisoned the straightjacket and was lying across his lap, her legs awkwardly stretched out over the arms of the tiny couch. It was all brilliant. At about 10:00 in the evening, they took a break to stretch, pee, and crack another bottle of wine.

"What do you think?" she asked after her pitstop.

"I'm a little curious, why does Murder Bird always have three days growth of whiskers? ... and why does he always have a half-burned cigarette in his mouth but never seems to light up?"

"Those are just character props ," she said, waving her hand.

"And how come all the other ducks are fully dressed, and Murder Bird only wears a trench coat, which doesn't quite cover his fat, feathery ass?"

"Uh ... you know, I've never noticed that before."

"And what exactly does he do for a living? Is he some sort of private ducktective?"

"They don't use corny jokes like that, and ... uh, I'm not certain what he does exactly. He just gets into adventures. Don't over-think things."

"Still, you're right,' he nodded. "It is funny, and even strangely thoughtful at times. And the art isn't just good, it's fantastic. The black and gray-scale is perfect. It hits the right mood."

"Where did you learn to draw so well? Is that part of architect training?"

"No. It's just something I know how to do."

It struck her as a strangely worded answer, and his tone was ....

"Eli, people just don't just 'know' how to draw as well as you do." She noticed he was looking away and puckering his lips in that way he often did when he wanted to resist a smile. "Did you just wake up one morning knowing how to draw?"

"It's not a big deal," he said. "I thought we weren't going to talk about such things."

"How does someone wake up from a coma knowing how to draw? Wait. How good of an artist were you before your accident?"

He glanced over uncomfortably before concentrating on a spot on the floor in front of them. "Based on the notebooks I found stacked and hidden in his bedroom, the pre-coma Eli could draw tits and dicks as well as any fifth-grader." His lips had stopped twisting and had settled into his usual smile.

"And you woke up from the coma drawing how well?"

"As well as I do now ... but Kate, it's not a big deal. Yeah, I'll admit, it's the one thing my doctor, the other Kate, couldn't quite explain. Some people have a knack for numbers, but, no, you're right ... people don't just wake up one day knowing how to draw a portrait."

"Was this Lazlo guy a good artist?" she asked with the faintest hesitation.

"That I don't know .... Are we back to me being a demon or some sort of migrated soul?"

"No ... we're not. And I want to apologize for the fifth time for putting you through that."

He looked over at her, his smile still warm and generous. "You didn't put me through anything. Your reaction was pretty normal ... and, no, I don't mean the demon part. But you'd just found one of your neighbors had died an untimely death. It's normal to be upset and a little shocked ... especially since he was kicked to death by one of those unearthly killing machines," he stabbed a finger toward the door, "that you've got two of in the other room. You really should consider a sensible hobby."

"I'm not selling my horses. And is there nothing you won't joke about?"

"Ted was only the beginning," he said with a slow shake of the head. "They're out for all of us. The second we go to sleep ...."

"Nobody's getting murdered in their sleep, and just for that crack, you're helping me muck the stalls in the morning."

They'd slid back into a familiar groove. Eli was teasing her again. He did it quite a lot, but it was always gentle and funny, never mean spirited. The man had a gift for sensing when he was taking something too far. She stretched across his lap again and reached for the remote. It was time for more Murder Bird, but she couldn't stop thinking about what a strange and wonderful man had fallen into her life.

He hadn't said a word about her throwing herself at him. It gladdened her that it didn't seem to have bothered him in the least. The thought of ruining their friendship terrified her. The fact he didn't find her attractive troubled her, but not heavily. Most men would have started ripping clothes off at the first sign of an opening. But she'd always known he wasn't interested ... at least she'd sensed it.

And, yet, there was something there. Her apartment was tiny, and the last time he'd visited, they'd again shared a bed and she'd again woken to something pressed up against her. (There was no panic on that occasion.) And even now as she lay across him, he would occasionally caress her back or shoulder. It all felt somewhat boyfriendish/girlfriendish, at least after a fashion.

And, of course, his touches melted her. But who was she kidding? Just being around him made her horny as a healthy young stoat. She laughed aloud when she thought how he might react if she came to bed that night wearing nothing but the straightjacket. The laugh, incidental to nothing on the screen, earned her a gentle poke in the ribs.

No. This was all she needed. He made her feel good, incredibly good, and he both liked and supported her. She liked him, too ... probably was beginning to fall for him. The universe has been generous to you, came that voice for the umpteenth time.

But why did the universe have to make him smell so damn good?

They watched television until past midnight, after which the two began stumbling around and getting ready for bed, which was situated only a few feet from the couch. First, though, she stepped out, checked on the horses, and locked up. Even with Eli there, moving out to the main aisle at such an hour and peeping outside the building left her heart in her throat. There were no obvious signs of Chupacabra activity outside, but she was glad for the company.

When they shut off the lights and collapsed into bed together, they were still mostly clothed and lay talking a while. The lion's share of the conversation was about Murder Bird, which, to her delight, he liked and appreciated, but other things entered the fray. It didn't feel the least strange when she found herself half draped over him with her head resting lightly in his shoulder and her legs intertwined with his. On an intimacy scale of one to ten, she guesstimated this to be a three point five ... or a four, tops.

But as their conversation flowed and slowly ebbed, she began to listen and to feel. His breathing and heartbeat were mesmerizing, and his body was so ... not Otto. She wondered if this man beside whom she lay had a single ounce of fat on him. He wasn't bulky, just long and lean, that type of bod she oh-so loved. She pondered for a while during one of their lulls, when she suspected he'd slipped off to sleep, that maybe he was Heaven sent. Eli was a gorgeous man, and not Main Street gorgeous but Hollywood gorgeous.

And that body, she nearly said aloud.

And the asshole had the nerve to continue his occasional caresses of her back and arm as they lay together. She couldn't stop thinking how unfair it was, even as she shifted her hips just a tad to bring them astride his heavily muscled left leg. The contact, as light as it was, sent a shiver through her, and she very nearly cried out. She realized her new position was an intimacy level somewhat greater than four—she didn't care to venture how much greater—but only if he figured out what liberties she was taking with his innocent thigh.

Fucking tease, she thought.

No sooner than she'd mustered that unflattering thought, he murmured. "I think the horses are at the door."

"Go to sleep, chicken," she whispered back. It wasn't clear if it was the wine or the late hour, but her words sounded groggy, even to her, and it dawned on her how very close she'd come to sleep during her musings.

It didn't matter, because what she felt was perfect. She hadn't intended to hump his leg, but in that twilight at the edge of slumber, she felt his every bodily movement, no matter how negligible, and each sent a cascade of pleasure through her loins.

Oh ... well, now you're delivering, she half thought, her mind too muddled with sleep and merlot to feel any real shame at her behavior.

That sordid state of affairs went on for how long she couldn't say. Twenty minutes? Thirty? An hour? And with every new contented pleasure, she had to fight the urge to cry out or to push back. He wasn't doing anything on purpose—she was convinced of that. His were just the slight motions and movements of someone who, like her, was on the very threshold of sleep.

And, yet, it all added up. By the end, as silent as she was, her body's tensing and trembling would have been obvious to anyone not completely oblivious, and at the very, very end, she experienced a mind-numbing climax. The slightest startled gasp and a tiny cry escaped her when it came.

For several moments, amidst her quivering and her unsteady breathing, she was convinced, against all odds, that he'd been unaware of her naughty nocturnal labors. Then she felt a single warm, wet kiss on her forehead and blissfully endured another slow caress that ran the length of her back. Eli said not a word, and she offered no apology or explanation.

It had been a long and complicated day, full of all manner of interesting and brilliant things, almost all of them good. And it all had ended in the best conceivable way, even if she'd had to take what she'd wanted, like filching a piece of ham from a breakfast cutting board.