HOPEWELL, 1997 CE

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” EMILY RYAN SAID. “LAST WEEK you said you wanted to see it. It’s about aliens, I think.”

“Well now I don’t,” Kosh said. “I gotta go.” He hung up the phone and sat staring at it, waiting for his breathing to go back to normal. Last Sunday, Emily had asked him if he wanted to go see Contact with her. It was playing at the multiplex in Rochester. He’d said yes, because he could not say no to her. Not to her face. But now he didn’t think he could stand it, sitting next to her for two hours. Smelling her hair. Feeling the heat of her body. It was best to simply not see her at all, because it hurt too much to know he could never have her.

The phone rang. He let it ring five times before picking up.

“Hello.” He made his voice go dead.

“Kosh, are you mad at me?” It was Emily again.

“No. I’ve just got. . . . Look, I’m really busy, okay?”

“That’s fine, I understand. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t something I’d done.”

“It’s nothing to do with you,” Kosh said.

“We can go see it another time.”

“Okay.”

“Are we still cooking next weekend?”

“I might be busy.”

Emily didn’t speak for a moment. “I think you’re mad at me,” she said at last.

“I’m not mad.” Kosh was squeezing the handset so hard his fingers hurt. He forced his hand to relax.

“Well . . . I was thinking about doing a pot roast Sunday, so, call me if you want to.”

“Okay. Good-bye.” Kosh set the handset back on the phone cradle with exaggerated delicacy, as if presenting a perfect soufflé.