He kissed her very gently then and they separated, without words; they lay quietly side by side, touching each other, yet apart, the trace of their fire still inside of them, and exhaustion brought with it no sadness, no loneliness.
Robert Holton put his arm under her head; then he looked out the window, looked at the real stars, not nearly as bright as the ones in his head, the ones they had made together.
Silence and darkness protected them.
Part of his mind became detached again and he saw himself in relation to the world. He saw himself in a darkened room of a large hotel, lying exhausted beside the wife of a painter. He frowned in the dark and he fought the vision of the outer world.
Carla moved her hand over his chest, twisting the hairs; he felt a spasm of tenderness shake him and he took her and held her close to him. This was the moment when he felt he was not alone, felt that he was not a single particle lost in a void. The half of him lost in the womb had been regained and he was finally complete: he was God and earth and other stars, so great was this fusion.
They slept quietly in each others arms. They slept unaware of time for they were time.
Carla woke first. She gave a start and Robert Holton opened his eyes, wondered where he was; then he saw Carla beside him, saw a vague figure by the light of stars.
“Caro mio,” she murmured, saying the first words either had spoken.
“Darling,” he whispered.
“It’s so perfect,” she said and he put her head on his shoulder again. Then they were still, looking at the uncertain outline of their bodies on the whiteness of the bed.