Chapter 12: Day Nineteen

By Friday night, I had printed the curve and taped it to my refrigerator.

It was a stupid thing to do.

Winston found it at ten o'clock, with a bag of oranges in one hand.

He stood in front of the fridge for a long time.

"The line ends here," he said, and put his finger on the page.

"That's Day 19."

"Today."

"The tail ends at 19. After that, there's no data. Nobody under five percent has ever lasted longer on our platform."

"We'd be the first."

"We'd be an outlier."

"I like outliers."

"They're usually errors."

"Daria." He turned. "Look at me."

I looked.

He was in a gray t-shirt and jeans, which I had begun to think of as his real clothes.

He had a small crease on his forehead.

"We're not an error," he said.

"I know that."

"Do you?"

My throat tightened.

"It's eleven minutes to midnight," I said. "I want to be in bed when it passes."

He took the oranges out of his hand and set them on the counter.

He picked me up, and carried me up the stairs.

The window in my bedroom was open an inch.

The rain was coming down on Butler Street in a soft steady sound.

He set me on the bed and stood over me.

"No orders tonight?" he said.

I thought about it.

"I don't have any."

"Then let me."

"Let you what?"

"Take my time."

I pulled him down by the front of his shirt.

He undressed me with an attention that hurt.

He took off my sweater, and the shirt under it.

The plain gray bra, and he kissed each place as it came bare.

My shoulder.

The notch of my collarbone.

The inside of my elbow, which made me laugh.

He took my glasses off, folded them, and put them on the nightstand, exactly where I always put them.

He had learned where.

I undid his jeans and pushed them down, and his shirt over his head.

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