Time and Again

hand in his she wondered why it felt as though she'd made a mistake.
    Or jumped off a bridge. He had a way of using only the barest brush of his fingertips to send her pulse scrambling. Slowly, wishing he wasn't so obviously aware of her reaction, she drew her hand away. "I'm going to fix breakfast."
    "Is it all right if I have a shower?"
    "Sure. I'll show you where everything is." More comfortable with something practical to do, she led the way down the hall. "Clean towels in the closet." She opened a narrow louvered door. "Here's a razor if you want to shave." She offered him a disposable safety razor and a can of shaving cream. "Something wrong?" He was staring at the items she offered as though they were instruments of torture. "I guess you're used to an electric," she said, "but I don't have one."
    "No." He managed a weak smile, hoping he wouldn't slit his throat. "This is fine."
    "Toothbrush." Trying not to stare at him, she handed him a spare that was still in its box. "We don't have an electric one of these, either."
    "I'll, ah, rough it."
    "Fine. Take whatever looks like it will fit out of the bedroom. There should be jeans and sweaters. I'll have something ready in a half hour. Time enough?"
    "Sure."
    Cal was still staring at the toiletries in his hands when she shut the door.
    Fascinating. Now that he was over the panic, the fear and the disbelief, he was finding the whole episode fascinating. He studied the cardboard box and toothbrush with a grin, like a boy who'd found a fabulous puzzle under the Christmas tree.
    They were supposed to use these things three times a day, he remembered. He'd read all about it. They had different flavors of paste that they scrubbed all over their teeth. Sounded revolting. Cal squirted a dab of the shaving cream on his finger. Gamely he touched it to his tongue. It was revolting. How had anyone tolerated it? Of course, that had all been in the days before tooth and gum diseases had been eradicated by fluoratyne.
    After opening the box, he ran a thumb over the bristles. Interesting. He grimaced into the mirror, studying his strong white teeth. Maybe he shouldn't take any chances.
    Setting everything on the sink, he turned to look at the bathroom. It was like something out of those old videos, he thought. The clunky oval tub, with its single awkward-looking shower head sticking out of the wall. He would start filing it all away. Who could tell, maybe he'd write a book when he got home.
    Of more immediate importance was figuring out how to operate the shower. Above the lip of the tub were three round white knobs. One was marked H, another C, and the middle was graced with an arrow. Cal scowled at them. He could certainly figure out that they meant Hot and Cold, but it was a far cry from the individual temperature settings he was accustomed to. There would be no stepping inside and telling the computerized unit he wanted ninety-eight degrees at a mist. It was fend-for-yourself.
    He scalded himself first, then froze, then scalded himself again before he and the shower began to understand each other. Once it was running smoothly he could appreciate the feel of hot water beating down on his skin. He found a bottle marked Shampoo, took a moment to be amused by the packaging, then dumped some in his hand.
    It smelled like Libby.
    Almost immediately his stomach muscles tightened, and a wave of desire flowed over him, as hot as the water on his back. That was odd. Baffled, he continued to stare down at the pool of shampoo. Attraction had always been easy-simple, basic. But this was painful. He pressed a hand to his stomach and waited for it to pass. But it persisted.
    It probably had to do with the accident. That was what he told himself, and what he preferred to believe.
    When he got back home he'd have to check into a rest center for a full workup. But he'd lost his pleasure in the shower. He toweled off quickly. The scent of soap and shampoo-and Libby-was everywhere.
    The jeans were a little loose in the waist, but he liked them. Natural cotton was so outrageously expensive that no one but the very rich could afford it. The black roll-necked sweater had a hole in the cuff and made him feel at home. He'd always preferred casual, comfortable clothes. One of the reasons he'd left the ISF was that they had a penchant for uniforms and polish. Barefoot and pleased with himself, he followed the scents of cooking into the kitchen.
    She looked great. Her baggy pants accentuated her