KIRK IN THE NEXUS

I draw my fingers through the dark, damp head resting on my shoulder. No trace of grey in that fine silky hair. But then, the wall mirror also reflects only honey-tinged chestnut strands around my own face. No wrinkles, on either of us.

The gauze curtain flaps in the breeze, and I shiver. The room's temperature shifts up perceptibly. Now it's warm enough to place us on Vulcan.

I look out of the window that's now tall and oval. Sure enough, there's a majestic red desert stretching all the way to the horizon. The walls have turned sandstone, the curtains wild silk.

Suddenly the room is too hot to breathe. Next to me he gives a surprised sigh as I stand up and walk up the window.

"Jim," he says softly.

I can't answer. Somewhere in my throat there's a clump of pain, and I can't breathe through it.

"Jim," he calls again, "come back to bed."

Finally I find the words. Right ones? "Go. You are-- not real."

The room shifts. We are in the cabin again, the night-time forest sleeps outside the square window pane. He is standing next to me, clad in jeans and a flannel shirt. His hair is salt and pepper now, like I remember it. From the last time I saw him. The real him. The deep lines on his face make him look like a wood sculpture.

"I can be," he mutters against my neck as I turn away. "I can be as real as you want me to be."

Soft words. Seductive. False.

When I look again the room is empty, and the velvet curtain moves in the wind.

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