We return to New York, but this time we stay in south Brooklyn, our hotel on the very shores of the Atlantic. Something goes wrong; we awaken in the ocean, chest deep, dressed in shirts and shorts, as if for a sunny day out. The morning is overcast, a uniform foggy grey, the waters tempestuous, threatening to drag us to our doom. We clasp hands and walk through the churning ocean, the beach a mile or so away, digging our bare feet into the submerged sand, step by difficult step. To our left and right, we see other couples cast into the same predicament. Shouting encouragement back and forth across the waves, we all stagger more or less together onto the beach, the surf still tugging at our ankles as if hoping to pull us back into the ocean's clutches.
There follows a brief interlude of confusion and questions, but none of us have any answers. Soaking wet and exhausted, we return to our hotels.
The next day, you decide to rest while I head into the city. To my astonishment, I spot a floating businessman; he's soaring, legs crossed, a couple of metres above the sidewalk. He's wearing a white suit with a matching porkpie hat, and he is laughing as though all his cares had been forever banished.
I wave him down, and he flies over effortlessly.
"You've got to try this," he says, reaching overhead to pluck what looks like a square couch cushion out of the air. It's black and white, about a meter square, and as soon as he pulls it to the level of his chest, gravity suddenly renews its hold on him and he drops to his feet.
He hands me the square; it's soft, malleable. I regard it dubiously, but then tentatively raise it over my head and let go. It remains suspended above me, and I find that I am suddenly weightless; but better than that, I can will myself forward and back, up, down, sideways, wherever I want.
It is euphoric. I rise above the city like Superman, swooping to and fro, diving to within a hair's breadth of the earth, grass tickling my chest, then rising to the edge of space. After a few minutes of this, I return to the street where I saw the businessman. With real regret, I return his device.
"Is it magnetic...no, that can't be right. Does it somehow block gravity..?"
He just smiles and says he thinks it's going to be a big hit. A little later, I return to our hotel room and I tell you about it; you're skeptical until we see a commercial about the flying machine.
We relax on the couch together, and darkness closes in until the light of the television is snuffed out.
