When my eyes half-opened the next morning, I was cozily nestled between the smooth sheets.  The sun poured gently through cracks in the curtains.  I buried my face into the pillow, forgetting that some traces of what minimal makeup I wore were still smeared upon my eyes and lips, and breathed a sigh of endless relief.  Such a nightmare.  I almost believed it, too. 

I tried to decide which was a better idea- staying in bed until I absolutely had to get dressed for work, or dragging myself to the kitchen to fix a much-needed big breakfast.  Decisions, decisions.  I rubbed my nose and sniffed, glancing at my watch as I did.  And frowned.  Why did it say it was one in the morning?  It was far too bright outside to be so early.  Darn thing had to be broken.

I realized the walls had turned green overnight.  I sat up, shifting my feet and nudging against a warm mound there at the foot of the bed.  An orange furry head with pointy ears turned and two green feline eyes stared back at me.

"Aw, man," I muttered.  I patted my chest, felt the bump of the tracker under my shirt, and fell back against the bed.  "Well, I was hopeful."

Two hours, tops, Dr. K had assured me.  Just two hours, and here it was the next day! "Steven Kurzweil, you disappoint me, dearie," I said aloud.  "It's eight, now.  Man, I slept long.  This time warp stuff must take a greater toll than I realized."

Suddenly I remembered I'd fallen asleep with my backpack in my arms.  Mildly freaking, I looked at the side of the bed and found it sitting quietly there, undisturbed, next to my shoes.  I made sure nothing was missing, and found everything in its proper place.

I frowned, slightly perplexed.  But I hadn't taken off my shoes.  Or pulled back the covers.  Or intentionally set my backpack anywhere.  And I wasn't the kind to wake up in the middle of the night and do it without being able to remember later.

Who cares, I thought to myself.  What's important is, he let me stay here for the night.  Freddie might have tucked me in for all I know.  He didn't even report me.  How nice of him.  Not many people would do something like tha-HOLY MOSES! I'M IN 1977 WITH FREDDIE MERCURY AND I ACT LIKE I'M JUST CRASHING AT A FRIEND'S HOUSE BECAUSE I DRANK TOO MUCH THE NIGHT BEFORE!  WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?!?!  IT'S FREDDIE FREAKING MERCURY!!!!  F-R-E-D-D-I-E M-E-R-C-U-R-Y!!!

It took a few minutes for me to calm down.  But I would be lying if I said those few minutes didn't involve me jumping around, silently screaming my head off, and generally just bouncing off the walls in a strange mix of euphoria and anticipation and madness and pent-up energy. Come on.  It had to happen sooner or later.  People only take it well the whole time when the script and the director say so.  This is reality.

However, I did at last get hold of myself, partly due to the funny look Oscar was giving me, but mostly because I was still weary with hunger.  Jumping up and down excitedly wears thin pretty quick when that's the case.  I couldn't take it anymore.  I had to eat.

So I washed my face, dragged a brush through my hair (I needed a new hairstyle, this rather ambiguous one wasn't doing it for me anymore) and put my contacts back in.  I licked my lips as my imagination laid out a beautiful breakfast spread.  Fried eggs over-medium, with bacon and either English muffins or devastatingly rich, sugary French toast, and as a triumphant finish, fresh berries with whipped cream. 

I slid the Relic into my back jean pocket.  No way would I miss a call today.  And just before I descended into the living room, I stopped at the closed door across the hall.  Quietly I leaned forward, listening for any telltale sound.  But either Freddie didn't even breathe while he slept, or he'd already gone wherever, Wessex maybe.  I was pretty sure I was alone.  Wasting no more time, I rushed down the stairs, Oscar bounding along behind me.

The lower floor was taken up by the living room, a spacious, surprisingly tasteful area, not nearly as overdone as I had assumed was customary of Freddie.  In the middle loomed that infamous black grand piano on which he'd written, and would write, so many fantastic songs.  On the walls, crystal sparkled and paintings hung.

On instinct I drew back the curtains, letting light flood the room.  A rod iron stoop just outside the front window lay waiting for someone to walk out upon it with a cup of tea and breathe in the sweet morning air, content to watch the world go by without them for a while.

But first, breakfast.

I made straight for the kitchen and rummaged shamelessly through cupboards and cabinets till I found a glass, which I filled with water and drained.  Best glass of water I've ever had, bar none.

Then I went to business.  I couldn't find any coffee, so I started a pot of tea.  Teapots eluded me in those first days.  I didn't know what the heck I was doing, and Captain Google wasn't there to rescue me this time, but I did what I could.

Sadly, there wasn't any bacon, but I did find a dozen large eggs and a packet of sausages.  If rumors were to be believed, I likely wouldn't find any sliced bread for toast.  To my surprise, I indeed found no such loaf.  How silly can you get? I thought to myself.  As a child, was he frightened by a sandwich?

Still, I peeked around a little more, and came up with (O Joy and Rapture!) English muffins.  I was set.  I turned on the radio, and to my delight heard "The Things We Do For Love" by 10cc.  Snapping a green banana off the bunch hanging just above my head (to tide me over, of course), I went to work.

"Too many broken hearts have fallen in the ri-ver..." I sang to myself, "Too many lone-ly souls have drifted out to se-a..." as I cracked eggs and watched the sausage sizzle in the pan, but was still careful not to let it burn.  I almost felt normal.  Just another day, making breakfast for myself.  Just another morning at eight o'clock, alone in a strange man's house, who I knew but didn't know,  but that was okay since no one really knew him. 

And that was the difference.  Everyone knew who he was, but no one ever knew his heart.

And then the crazy idea struck.  I thought of how dumbfounded Freddie had been when I didn't recognize him at all, how his head had almost exploded.  No one, it seemed to me, ever got a good look at the actual man, because they were so blinded by the persona he wanted them to see- and therefore, the person they learned to expect. 

But I didn't know who he was, as far as he was concerned.  And that took away some of the pressure.  Didn't it?  At least it gave someone like me a greater chance.

For the first time, I saw my mistaken trip here for the opportunity it offered.  This is good stuff, I told myself.  For whatever time frame I have to stay here, why don't I make use of it?  Why don't I try my hand at him?   I've always wanted to. 

I bit into the banana.  But again, that was worst-case scenario- and assuming Freddie would let me stick around.  I shouldn't be worrying, I decided, but my confidence was weaker than last night's.  Dr. K would pick me up long before I could get any traction in that way.  I'd just have to take it one moment at a-

"Are you still here?" Freddie's nonchalant voice cut through. 

My blood flowed all the way down into my feet.  I turned, and there he was leaning against the door frame, arms folded.  With my contacts on, I could see everything, down to the curve of his large, contorted mouth.  But his eyes were much friendlier than earlier.  This gave me courage.

I smiled at him.  "Good morning."

"Hello," he said with a small wave.  He strode forward, surveying the goings-on with profound authority.  "I see you've made yourself at home."

I took another bite of banana.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Freddie.  I was dying."

"Apparently," he agreed.  How anyone could look so fresh boggled my mind.  Freddie was clean shaven, his hair fluffed to perfection.  Few people can make a simple T-shirt and slacks look stylish, especially if they are as short-waisted and long-limbed as Freddie.  But he managed. 

"You didn't report me," I said.  "Thank you."

"Yeah, well, don't get too complacent," he informed me.  "I might today."

"Why didn't you last night?"

"Now, really, Evie dear.  What was I supposed to do, with you looking so pathetic and so alone?  To kick you out in the dead of night?  What kind of monster do you take me for?"

"I don't know what I take you for," I said.  "All I know is, you were nice enough to let me stay- and you tucked me in, which was really very sweet-"

"Oh, I didn't do that.  That was Oscar."

"Really?  Took off my shoes and everything?  That's very impressive for a cat.  Just by looking at him, I never would have guessed he had opposable thumbs."

He nodded solemnly.  "Indeed.  It's one of his better kept secrets."

This smile I let show, but only briefly.  I turned back to breakfast and called over my shoulder, "So!  You hungry?"

"I could force a bite or two down, I think." 

"That's good.  Nothing worse than eating alone."

"I can think of a few things, actually-"

"Yeah, I bet you can.  Anyway, I'm making English muffins, and sausage-"

"You mean crumpets, don't you?" he interrupted me.

"What?"

"Those are called crumpets, Miss America."

Oh, of course. Because "English muffin" would sound silly.

"That, too. Anyway, uh, where was I?"

"Sausage."

"Oh, right. One more thing, how do you like your eggs?"

He looked at me with a funny gleam in his eyes- one I learned to look for in most conversations thereafter.  Because it was a warning of the abject, wonderful idiocy which would follow.

Freddie said, "Who wants to know?"

"Me."

He shook his head.  "I."

"You?"

"No, no, I was correcting you.  You said, 'me.'  That wasn't right.  You meant, I.  It is, 'I' want to know.  'I' is correct."

"I is correct?  Don't you mean, I 'am' correct?"

"No.  I is correct.  I is what is used in that context.  Who wants to know?  I do."

This discussion began seeming more and more like the script of a vaudeville act. "You?"

"Yes.  No!  You!"

"Me?"

"Yes.  But you mean I.  Not 'me.'"

"Oh."  I was confused, so I shrugged.  "Whatever."

Freddie rolled his eyes and sighed. "You killjoy Yanks."

Suddenly I realized he'd just been messing with me.  I'm really not that dense.  I learn.  This was a game I got much better at later. 

But for now I popped back, "You Limey Grammar Nazis.  How do you like your eggs?"

"Who wants to know?"

I held up my egg spatula like it was a bejeweled scepter.  "Eve Dubroc, Queen of the Kitchen!  That's who!"

(I was punchy.  Cut me some slack.)

"I like my eggs," Freddie answered, "like I like my women."

This was a road I didn't feel like treading.  "Okay.  Forget how you like them.  How do you want them?"

"How are you cooking yours?"

"Over medium.  Fried."

"That sounds great."

"I thought so, too."

"Don't you want to know how I like my women?"

"Not really.  No.  Thanks."

He nodded.  "That's fair."

"Good. Would you please do me a favor and pull the English muffins out of the ov-"

"Crumpets!"

"Okay, yeah, the crumpets, could you please get them out of the oven for me?  They look a little toasty and I don't want them to burn..."