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It's a whole new day, barely dawn here, but already lunch time in London. Jay and Sharon have hardly slept, maybe a few hours if that, after all the excitement last night next door. But here they are, awake if not fully conscious, because Roman will be calling.
Sharon can't cross her legs any longer. She's too big, so she sits with them splayed apart and an elbow digging into her knee as she listens, and listens, and occasionally says mm-hmm and the like.
Roman does like to spin a tale.
"No, of course not," she's saying into the phone now. When Jay catches her eye, she smiles, but looks away, lowering her head. She brushes a sweaty lock of hair that's stuck to her neck. Jay imagines peeling it off her humid skin, tucking it back to rejoin its sibling in the loose chignon, but curls his fingers closed instead. "Of course I'm not mad. I'm just..."
She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't need to. Jay hands her the glass full of orange juice he just finished squeezing. His hands are sticky, flecked with pulp.
He wanders to the bank of windows overlooking the back yard. After forming a broad half-moon, the yard drops off abruptly. Everything's a cliffhanger in this town: someone said that once, and he wishes like hell he could remember who. No way can he pass the observation off as his own. He's not an artist, after all. Just as stylist.
The sun isn't up yet, but the sky looks like it's lifting off the canyon, getting lighter, buoyant. All the trees are still indistinct inky clumps, but the birds are clearing their throats and testing the pitch. Someone's sprinkler is kicking in.
Sharon holds the phone away from her cheek to sip her juice. Jay rubs at an itch along his upper lip; the bright scent of citrus fills his nose. They regard each other as Roman talks away, heedless of the cost.
That's how it goes. Roman lies and Sharon pretends to believe him. He's the artist and she's good at make-believe.
"He's staying another two weeks," Sharon tells Jay when they finally hang up. She holds out the empty glass, its lone ice cube clicking against the wall. "This is a lifesaver, though. You're a lifesaver."
"More?" he asks, heading back to the kitchen.
Her bare feet squeak a little on the floor as she follows him. "Is there? More?"
"There can be." Of course there can be.
He rinses off the juicer in the sink and sets it back up again. The first round of juicing severely depleted the sack of oranges, but there should be enough to eke out another cup or so.
With one arm, she hugs him as he works the juicer handle. She teases him about how macho he is. Her belly rests against Jay's side, his hip, and he can smell the sweetness of her breath. He tips his head against hers and lets go of the handle.
The thing about living next to door to the end, to waking up just as the happily ever after gets underway, is that one doesn't know anything about that. One doesn't know where he is, let alone the import and weight of anything's meaning. Jay remains innocently ignorant, simply himself, on another LA morning, with the woman he loves kissing his cheek and calling him sweetheart, and nothing has changed.
On the other hand, now that the end has scrolled across the screen and the house lights are coming up with the sun, he can also do anything, say anything, be, finally. When there's a future, there's actually a million futures, a million and one.
So he can kiss her, on the cheek and then her plump, pink lips. He can slip his hand through her sleep-sweaty beautiful hair, crane a little to accommodate her ripe, gorgeous belly, hear her gasp, and then murmur sweetly into his mouth, and there's future's wide open, the sky is bright, and the two of them still draw breath.