the
knowledge of her love and physical contact with her straining body
dispelled the bleak loneliness.

When their lips parted, they gasped for breath.

It was no good. It was like tearing at an itching insect bite with your
fingernails. The relief was only momentary, and it left the wound
bleeding and more irritated than ever. Even if they were married--look
at Peter at the club--Peter and his wife, mutually in love and
completely miserable. It wasn't normal love. It was the damned virus!

As well argue with gravity. He tried to tell her, but he couldn't make
her understand. Her restraint had been magnificent, but when the dam
broke, it was beyond stopping the flood of her emotion. And now he
couldn't believe it himself. Nothing this wonderful could be destroyed
by mere misunderstanding. He cursed the years of his celibacy. All that
time wasted--lost!

It was six o'clock before they reached her apartment. The License Bureau
had been a mob scene. Hours more, upstairs in the City Hall waiting for
the judge, while they held hands like a pair of college sophomores,
staring into each others' eyes, drinking, drinking the elixir of
adoration with a thirst that wouldn't be sated.

Phyllis weakened first. In the cab, after the ceremony, she released his
hand and wiped her damp forehead.

Then, in the elevator, Murt felt himself relaxing. The alchemy of
sustained passion had exhausted them both, he decided.

As Phyllis slipped the key in the door, she looked up at him in
surprise. "Do you know, I'm hungry. I'm starved--for the first time in
months."

Murt discovered his own stomach was stirring with a prosaic pangful
demand of its own. "We should have stopped to eat," he said, realizing
they had forgotten lunch.

"_Steaks!_ I have some beauties in my freezer!" Phyllis exclaimed. They
peeled off their coats and she led him into the small kitchen. She
pointed at the cupboard and silverware drawer. "Set the table. We'll eat
in five minutes."

* * * * *

Slipping into an apron, she explored the freezer for meat and French
fries, dropped them into the HF cooker and set the timer for 90 seconds.
When it clicked off, she was emptying a transparent sack of prepared
salad into a bowl.

"Coffee will be ready in 50 seconds, so let's eat," she announced.

For minutes, they ate silently, ravenously, face to face in the little
breakfast nook. Murt had forgotten the pure animal pleasure of
satis