Tupper Daniels sleeps beside her with his mouth closed and his hand over his heart. If the revelations of the night are still with him, they don’t disturb his sleep. His face is serene, neither his mouth nor his eyelids twitch or tremble. All she has told him is safe, well below the surface.And she’d said he was her mythical other half. Said: Even now, it isn’t over.The light behind the heavy curtains falls softly, weakly, into the room, dulls the edges of the dresser and the tops of the bedposts, fills the room with odd shapes. Staring hard, she can see the shadow of a fish, what seems to be a distant line of mountains at the foot of the bed, a dark madonna in a corner, a long shadow boat, perhaps a battleship, on the ceiling. She closes her eyes for a moment and when she opens them again, the images have disappeared.She would like to wake him, to ask, What next? What should I tell you next and when will you find your ending? And what after that? When does it all take shape, the ads, the distribution, the bright young editor who turned vanity publishing on its ear?—but she has never been good at waking her lovers.
