"Ann Bailey. I have a notice here in my hand," he belched out every word, "that you are the recent bride of Paul Bailey."

"Yes," she stammered.

"He's had an accident. His two-engine plane took off from the runway but one of the engines failed…"

"Is he all right?" Ann anxiously screamed into the phone.

"Afraid not. Plane went up in flames. No survivors."

The receiver dangled by its curly cord for three hours before anyone from the hotel thought it worth inspecting. Delivering the ordered luncheon of cheese plates, cold cuts and cantaloupe, the bell hop knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked louder and waited. Still no response. "Goddamn it!" he muttered. "Are they still in there making love? Never seen anything like it." He fumbled for a key thinking that if anyone was in there they certainly wouldn't allow their happiness of bedtime pleasures to be interrupted for the questionable delight of dried up contents under the silver dish on his cart. He stuck the key in the lock. Still no response. With a brisk movement the door was opened and, backing in, the bell hop pivoted with the cart, his back still to the bed purposely.

"Miss!" he screamed. Christi Hope this isn't another suicide, he thought as he lifted the head of the blonde woman whose wan face clearly showed an expression of grief even in her helplessly unconscious condition. With a splash of ice water from his cart, Ann was brought back to life once more but against her will.

Straining, she rose on one elbow, then, with the bell hop inches away the stark reality of her miserable life hit her like a gust of Arctic wind. "Ohhhh, God, help me," she repeated with blankly staring eyes. "He's dead… Paul… is dead… dead…"

It was over. Her happy life as wife and lover to her Irish darling was over. It was like a dream, a six day dream. He was gone and there was no sign of him as she scanned the room for affirmation of her past husband's existence. Yellow walls lined with Picasso paintings and Dali sketches smiled back at her mockingly.