Sex had always been a muddy, disconnected experience for Terry. She had never inspired (or felt) the kind of gasping intensity she'd seen in porn, and her self-criticism put a distance between what she was doing and how she felt about it. But with Tom, the triviality of it gave her an excuse to relax. Knowing that he could enjoy it at the basest phyical level, she was able to turn off the internal choreographer, and experience everything in full fidelity.

Tom focused on the aesthetics of the situation. Even without a natural sexual attraction, he could appreciate beauty, and felt genuine happiness to share this bed with her. A respactable amount of time later, he was finished, and it was time to get dressed for their first performance.

12 hours later, they were in that black SUV, ripping their first seam through the high desert. Tom had rehearsed this first road-trip as well, understanding the importance of their first performance, planning a string of conversations meant to disarm and attract Terry. And although it surprised him how much longer than planned it took, by the time they had parked in their first hotel parking lot, his hand had been on her thigh for some time.

She knew it was an act. Terry was gorgeous and young, but not stupid. She'd been on the receiveing end of so much romantic energy, she naturally became a connoisseur of men's intentions. Usually, the difference was subtle and overwhelmed by the pure sexual thrust of the conversation, but Tom's advances were so confident and unafraid and completely lacking any driving force. It was confusing at first, but if he was willing to play the role, she'd certainly take him up on it. And she was curious to see how high up her leg he would dare to put his hand, and if she adjusted her skirt just so, would it be enough to arouse a genuine interest.

Tom, however, had taken no chances. With only a (stage) name, the original casting call, and 12 hours notice, he set out to convince himself he was in love. He imagined a face, purposefully blank, but pretty in the most generic way. He wove together every scene from every happy relationship he'd had, neglecting the specifics, focusing on the feelings (substituting gender when appropriate). Consummation came quickly, and he sank into sleep not only in love with Terry, but impressed. If an actor could fool himself, certainly he was something special.

They hadn't met until late in the audition process. Terry was a slam-dunk, with her angled (but not too edgy) looks and bright, blue eyes. But Tom was a question mark. His sexual energy was nebulous, and though he was able to direct it on-stage with some precision, there were still questions about his ability to create the needed chemistry for this advertising experiment.

The attraction was instant, and for Terry, devastating. Tom stood with perfect posture, but somehow conveyed a relaxed slouch -- the same way his shirt felt more wrinkled, his face less shaven, then they really were. He was the perfectly composed, committee created, focus-group refined, test-marketed example of the handyman next door, and she had trouble holding eye contact with him.

Tom and Terry (stage-names -- audiences love alliteration) move their SUV through the sparse desert, splitting it like a black zipper. They've been outfitted with satellite radio, 4G internet, and a DVD player, but it's all been quieted for the morning. Only crackling static and the occasional surprise eruption of old country ("road music"), from the FM radio interrupt their unhurried conversation. 283 days in, and there was still no pattern to their talks. Terry wondered when their brains would finally sync up -- make every exchange a set of shorthand sounds and unfunny inside jokes -- and wondered if that signaled a beginning or an end.