Page 35 of Wished

The temperature of the office just went up about five thousand degrees.

He watches me, taking in my appearance. His pupils nearly swallow the dark brown of his eyes.

Apparently, our marriage is full of conjugal bliss.

When I tug at my wrist again his expression cools, and he says in a quiet voice, “Do you promise not to run?”

I lift my chin. “I came to you. What do you think?”

He considers this for a moment, sorting through whatever he knows of me and whatever he sees in his memories. After ten long seconds he drops my wrist. When he does, I take a big step back.

Outside the office the phone rings, and I hear Max’s assistant speaking quietly. Inside the office the only noise is Max’s measured inhale and exhale and the quiet hum of his electronics.

“All right,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ve figured it out. No need to worry. This is a dream.” He looks back at me and flicks his hand in the air as if he’s shooing me away. “I’ve fallen asleep at my desk and I’ll wake up any minute. When that happens, I’ll go back to work and you’ll go back to ...”—he waves his hand again—“stealing. Lying. Hoovering. Whatever.”

I glance to the ceiling and send up a prayer for patience. And forgiveness. “It’s not a dream.”

“It is. Case in point, you don’t look like this in real life.”

I glance down at myself. There was a mirror in the bedroom this morning. I look just the same as ever. “Yes, I do. I look just like I always do.”

Max shakes his head. “No. You wear thick glasses. You cover your hair with a handkerchief. I don’t even know what color it is in real life. I thought it was blonde. In real life you dress in dirty jumpers and ugly jeans. You’re shorter. Older. Not this alluring or?—”

“Okay.” I hold up my hand. “Stop.”

“Why?”

“This isn’t a dream. I look exactly the same as ever. You just never noticed me before.”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t believe me. “Not possible.”

Of course it’s possible. I lived it for three years.

“Look,” I say, “this can’t be a dream. People don’t share dreams.” I step forward and pinch his arm. Hard.

“Ouch!” He yanks his arm away from me.

“Exactly,” I say. “This being a dream is as likely as time travel or switching bodies. Those things don’t happen.”

Max taps his temple with his pointer finger and says, “Then how are you in here? How do I remember you as my wife? I have years of memories that I know aren’t real. They’re floating in my mind, parallel to reality. It’s like I have two pasts. How do you explain that?”

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

I don’t know why everyone else only remembers me as Max’s wife. I don’t know why I don’t remember us married. I don’t know why Max remembers both. I can’t explain it.

But, “I know why it happened.”

Max tilts his head, leaning closer. “What do you mean, you know why this happened?”

I glance around the oppressive office, at the thin stream of light filtering through the heavy curtains, at the thick wood desk, at the dark colors and weighted atmosphere.

“I wished it.”

Max gives me a flat stare. “You wished it.”

I nod slowly. “The sapphire necklace?—”

“The necklace you tried to steal.”

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