Apprehensions and Other Delusions by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

until they could be seated. Eric accepted this with a shrug and left his name with the hostess. “No smoking.”
    “It might be a little longer for that,” the hostess warned.
    Muir found a table as far from the large-screen TV as possible and held the chair for Fanchon. “I’ve spent the afternoon going over the tape we made in your flat. It’s almost completely silent,” he said as they were waiting for his name to be called. “There are sounds of you moving about the flat, talking to yourself occasionally, and muttering about the noise, but for the rest, there’s a few whispers and something that could be the sound of traffic in the street. We took more than four hours to go over the tape. We can make out a little rhythmic pattern, but that’s all there is.”
    “Oh, come off it,” she said, not willing to fight about it.
    He looked directly at her, as if eye contact would convince her where explanations would not. “I’m telling you the truth, Fanchon. I listened to it first, and we checked out the equipment, to make sure it was working right. It’s delicate and sophisticated, and if there were any sounds there that were real sounds, that machine would pick them up. I guarantee it. No question. It didn’t fail. We checked it for that.”
    “Then there has to be noise on the tape,” Fanchon said reasonably. “Lots of noise.”
    “As I’ve already told you, only a few whispers and the hint of rhythm. Nothing else. Nothing like what I heard in your flat. I know what I heard in your flat, and it isn’t on the tape.”
    “Oh.” She realized her appetite was gone. No matter what they were serving tonight, she could not eat it.
    “I don’t know what’s going on there yet, but I want to put my graduate students on it.” He looked over at her. “I know it isn’t convenient for you, but all that noise has to be less convenient than a couple of students monitoring the noise. Can’t you stick out a couple days more?”
    “And then it’ll be over?” she said wistfully.
    “I don’t know. I damn well hope so. You don’t want any more of the noise, and neither do I. But we’ll have a better understanding about it than we have now, that much is certain.” He paused as the waitress approached. “I think our table is ready.”
    “Fine,” she said, rising and following him so automatically that she might have been mechanical instead of human. “Lead the way.”
    “Come on,” said Eric. “Let’s get some food into you.”
    She couldn’t eat much at dinner, no matter how she tried. She was embarrassed that Eric had to pay when she wasn’t able to eat anything. By the time he drove them back to the house, she was so tired that all she wanted was a chance to sleep the clock around. Maybe, she thought as she opened her front door, I should give up and move out. Maybe I should call Peterson and tell him I can’t deal with this any longer.
    The noise pressed on her like thick blankets when she went to bed. All attempts at sleep were useless.
    For three more days there was no news from Eric Muir. Fanchon saw him only once, and he had nothing to say to her then. She made herself go to her classes, did extra research to keep away from her flat, and tried to catch naps at her office when her partner was off doing other things. She wasn’t certain if the noise were getting worse or if she were losing her ability to cope.
    When she met Naomi for lunch, Naomi said that it was probably nerves, since she—Fanchon—had gone so long without real sleep. Going without sleep was an invitation to disaster. She wanted Fanchon to know that at any other time she would have taken her into her house. But Bill had just moved in, and there was less time for things outside their relationship.
    Her own depression deepened as Fanchon once again wished Naomi the best of luck.
    The next morning when she returned from running fifteen minutes early, she saw Eric Muir was waiting for her.
    “We’ve been over the tapes and