"Seriously, Josh," Donna replies.  "I'll leave."

"Donna."  I'm wheedling.  She calls it whining, but I prefer wheedling.  It's more adult.  "You can't leave me here."

"You live here," she points out.

"But, Donna--"

"Let's see, you're confined to your apartment for another week, I've stocked your refrigerator with food, you've got plenty of books, and, oh, yeah, my car's parked about half a block away," she says.  "I think I can absolutely leave you here."

"Technically, yes," I concede, "you could leave.  But isn't there a larger moral obligation?"

"A moral obligation to listen to you prattle on about theoretical physics?" she asks.  "No, I don't believe there is."

"Donna," I am desperate to leave my apartment.  "If you don't want to stay, let me go with you."

"No."

"There's no reason I couldn't go for a short walk-"

"Yes, there is.  You're confined to your apartment for another week."

"Six days."

"Fine," she shrugs.  "Six days.  That still precludes a stroll around the block."

"But I'm an outdoorsman," I protest.  "I need to be outside."

"You are not an outdoorsman, Josh," she answers tiredly.  "You hate the outdoors."

"I do not!"

"Josh, you went camping once as a kid and got mauled by -- what was it? -- a raccoon?"

"It was a very large and very mean raccoon," I say defensively.  "And I think mauled is a slight exaggeration."

"It was a raccoon, Josh."  She's snickering.  "Mother Nature hates you as much as you hate her."

"Well, that's not a very nice thing to say."  I try indignant.

She's still laughing.  "And besides, you live in Georgetown, Josh.  This isn't exactly Yosemite."

"I could still see the stars, Donna," I retort.  "Speaking of which, did I explain that black holes are actually stars that have collapsed in on themselves?"

"Josh."  She gives me her long-suffering face.

"Seriously.  They are."  I ignore her obvious disinterest.  "And if you could travel to a black hole and hover just above the event horizon -- Do you know what an event horizon is?"

"No, but I honestly don't care."  She is searching for the remote control now.

It's next to my leg, and I shift my weight until it falls into the crack in the cushions.  I prefer a captive audience.

"The event horizon of a black hole," I explain, "is the line past which you can't escape the black hole's gravity.  You cross the horizon, you're a permanent resident of Blackholesville."

"Blackholesville?" she repeats.  She rises from the couch and flips the TV on manually.

"Donna," I protest.

"Josh, Will & Grace is on in a minute."

"But I'm telling you about time travel." I 'm wheedling again.

"No, you're not," she argues, settling back in beside me.  "You're telling me about Blackholesville."

"Donna--"

"Josh, I don't care about black holes," she glances up at me.  "I'm glad you enjoyed the books, but, really, I don't care."

"But you can time travel, Donna."

"Can I time travel to when you're no longer obsessing over theoretical physics?"

Will & Grace is starting.

"Donna."  I give her my best pathetic face.

She sighs.  "How do you time travel, Josh?"

I grin at her.  "If you hover just above the event horizon of a black hole, time slows down."

"Time slows down?" she asks.

Ah-ha!  I have her attention.  Although she does keep glancing at the TV.

"Yes," I say.  "Time is relative, actually.  If there's a strong enough force acting on you, your version of time is warped significantly in comparison to someone, say, living here on Earth."

"Can I be the unaffected person living here on Earth?" Donna asks.

"You know how you can get me to stop talking about theoretical physics?"

That gets her attention. (I should point out that Will & Grace is on commercial.)

"How?" she asks.

"Let me outside."

"Josh."

"Donnatella, I'm an outdoorsman."

"Joshua, we have had this conversation about forty-seven times; you're not going outside."

"Then guess what we're going to talk about."  I'm grinning.

"You know," she says, "it might not be a bad idea to let Sam come over."

"Really?" I ask.  "And CJ and Toby and--"

"Josh," she warns.  "Let's not get out of hand."

"Tuesday," I say.

"Tuesday?" she repeats.  "After the elections?  I don't think so."

"It'll be perfect," I argue.  "Let's call them right now."

"Josh, I'll tell them tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"Yes," she says.  "I promise."

"And you'll have to stop by the store."

"For what?"

"Well, you've been withholding alcoholic beverages--"

"Josh."

"Beer?"

She watches me for a moment, considering.  "You can only have one."

"Donna--"

"I'm serious, Joshua," she says.  "One beer."

"Fine."  Hell, that's one more than I've had in the past two months.

"So you'll stop calling yourself an outdoorsman?" she demands.

"Yes."

"And you'll stop talking about theoretical physics?"

I try.  I really do.

"Eleven dimensions," I say.

"Josh," Donna sighs.

"Eleven dimensions," I repeat.  "Can you believe that?"

THE END

10.20.00