”“Neither had I!”“We gotta do something for the fans!”“They’ve been wonderful!”Paula thought hard. “Maybe we can release messages? �...�We want to thank you for your support,’ that kind of thing. Maybe you release one and then later I release one? Just so everybody knows we’re not together when we record it.”“Maybe we can record solos,” Paul suggested, “and release those? But the concerts ... FUCK!”“There’s no way to do concerts,” Paula said.“What time is it?”Paula looked at the bedside alarm. Something that flowed. Something that drifted. Something that made her look like his bride. Never one of the wash-and-wear sweater sets that made her look like a third grade teacher. When he came home, she was his Tabitha, sexy and loving, not Tabby, the patient and mothering schoolmarm.He'd walk to her. He never pushed through the crowd, but somehow people just seemed to move out of his way, and he'd drop his briefcase at her feet, wrap his hands around her shoulders, and look down into her. More

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