"The Comfort in Being Sad"
by Michael Dell



"The sun's gone dim, and
The moon's turned black;
For I loved him, and
He didn't love back."

 -- Dorothy Parker 



CHAPTER ONE (Last Trip to Twilight Zone)


Someone was hugging him.  Michael had only been in the club ten seconds and already someone
was hugging him.  

Despite being slowed by the wisdom of alcohol, Michael's right arm instinctively returned a
half-hearted embrace before he even realized exactly who it was that was pressed against his
chest.  He looked down to discover the very reason for his having ingested eight shots of vodka
on this fine September evening.  Her name was Melanie.

"Thank you!" were the first words from her mouth.  She was smiling.  That was trouble.  One
smile from Melanie and Michael fell apart.  But he promised himself he'd stay strong.  He
wouldn't let her get to him this time.  Not after what she did.  But she was smiling.  

"You're welcome," was Michael's humble reply.  The thank you wasn't for the hug, but for a
dozen roses that Michael had sent her on her 21st birthday.  A birthday that had fallen from the
calendar a full two months ago.  Two months that passed without a single word exchanged
between the two.  

"I lost your number," offered Melanie, forcing the explanation through the overwhelming bass of
some idiotic dance music that turned the air rancid and made Michael wish he had finished the
bottle.  "I couldn't find it anywhere."

"That's okay, don't worry about it," assured Michael with a wave of his right hand.  She was still
smiling.  She looked so beautiful.  Not even the dim lighting could hold back the radiance of her
eyes.  Even though he cursed the day she ever started working at the Twilight Zone, Michael
couldn't help but be thankful for the black t-shirt with the goofy neon green club logo, the black
short skirt, and black stockings that now comprised her uniform.  She looked so damn cute.  And
she was smiling.  

"Where've you been?" 

Michael had to lean forward to salvage the question from the onslaught of hip hop torture. 
Three chords and angst.  That's music.  This was not music.  This was a dance club.  Michael
hated dance clubs.  Only the shield of alcohol was keeping his ears from bleeding beneath the
assault.  Once Melanie's inquiry fought its way to his Absolut-soaked brain, all Michael could
think of was why it took her two months to ask the question.  Two months of silence from the
girl he fell in love with, from the girl he thought he knew.  Two months of self-doubt.  Two
months of depression.  Two months of his heart jumping each time he heard the phone ring. 
Two months of her seeing friends of his without ever once asking for the number she supposedly
lost or even asking how he was doing.  Two months of trying to work up the courage to see her
again.  Now was his chance to let her know he was hurt.  Now was his time.  But she was
smiling.  All he could muster was a shrug of his shoulders and a rhetorical, "Well, you know..."    
          
Thankfully he had backup, and a designated driver.  Michael's buddy Frank Japhy was home
from the University of Michigan on account of the Labor Day weekend.  It was Frank's idea to go
to the Twilight Zone.  He wanted to be present when Michael saw Melanie again.  Frank was
there the first time Michael ever ventured to the Twilight Zone to see Melanie.  It was her first
night on the job.  Everything was golden between them.  Seemed perfect.  Things change. 

"I'm Frank!" he laughed, slicing the awkwardness to introduce himself before Michael could
stammer any further.  Melanie smiled a cheerful hello and then turned focus back to Michael.    
  
"You just missed the Rolling Rock brothers," said Melanie, referring to two friends of Michael's
who always used to partake in Latrobe, PA's finest whenever she used to wait on them at her
old job.  She used to work at a Buffalo Wild Wings.  Half bar, half restaurant.  No dancing.  No
obscure lighting.  No spine-rattling noise that passed for music in certain lame circles.  And no
assholes wearing silk shirts and gold chains looking to get laid, looking to lay cute waitresses
with radiant eyes and haunting smiles.

"I didn't know they were going to be here," replied Michael, leaning in to make sure his response
was heard.  

"We're meeting people," added Frank.

They were standing in the middle of one of the main walkways and customers were pouring
around them.  Not wanting to get Melanie in trouble for slacking on the job, Michael figured
he should move things along.  "Where should we sit?"

"There's room up top," suggested Melanie.  It seemed kind of an odd choice since she usually
worked the bottom bar, but Michael wasn't going to argue.  

"Anywhere up there?"

"Yeah, I'll find you."

With that they parted ways.  Michael had played it cool.  He didn't crack a smile once during the
entire exchange.  His head was swimming not from the vast amounts of alcohol in his system,
but because of the unexpected welcome he received.  He trudged his way up the three steps to
the second level of the club, lifelessly drifting past the dance floor and settling in along 
the far wall behind the bar, away from the crowd and tucked safely behind a pillar.  He and 
Frank snagged an open table and sat down.  

"I didn't expect that," said a stunned Michael.  "Of all the possibilities that went through my
mind on how this might go, that was not one of them."

"See, I'm your good luck charm.  Every time I'm here somethin' happens."

"I mean, she just hugged me.  I didn't even see her.  I had no idea who was hugging me until I
looked down.  We made no eye contact at all.  She just hugged me.  I thought she might ignore
me completely.  Or maybe act shy like she usually does.  But I never thought she'd just walk up
and hug me.  The Mel I know wouldn't do that.  My Mel wouldn't just hug me."  Michael began
looking around the club.  "I fuckin' hate this place.  I need another shot, you want anything?"

"No thanks."

The bar was about four feet away.  Considering his current state, that wasn't close enough.  He
dropped into a padded red vinyl seat and patiently waited for the bartender's attention.  

"What can I get ya?" asked a dark-haired woman in a similar uniform to Melanie's.  It didn't look
as cute on her.  

"Can I get a shot of vodka?"

"What kind?"

"You got Absolut?  Not Citron or anything, just plain Absolut."

"Yeah.  You want ice?"

"No, straight."

He watched intently as his friend splashed its way into a small shot glass, rising to reach the rim. 
"2.50."

Michael dropped three ones.  "Keep it."  

"Thanks."

"No... thank you."  He turned, being careful not to disturb his precious cargo, and returned 
to the table with his pal.  Frank was there, too.  

"How many is that?"


"Nine."  Michael raised the glass gently to his mouth and bolted its contents down his throat.  He
couldn't even taste it.  "I just don't know.  What do you make of all this?"

"I don't know.  I think it looks good."

"The Mel I know wouldn't just hug me.  She'd be too shy to do that.  And if she did hug me it
would certainly mean more than that hug did.  That was nothing.  I didn't feel anything.  It's
like I'm looking at a different girl.  It's just not the same.  It's different."

"Because of what you know about her now?"

"Yeah.  I guess so."

Michael surveyed his surroundings.  One thing that had not changed over the past two months
was his hatred for the establishment that was now feeding his need.  But even the vodka
couldn't relax his condemnation as he watched through confused eyes as mindless subjects
danced and laughed, posed and feigned, hunted and chased all to a soundtrack of absurdity. 
Lives squandered amidst deceit and cheap strobe lighting.  He despised this place.  He abhorred
it for the lies it prevailed, the insincerity it cultivated, and, most of all, for taking her away
from him.  

"I don't see Ruga anywhere, do you?" asked Frank, searching the crowd for a familiar face or at
least a revealing blouse.

"No."

"You want to walk around a bit?" 

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"There's Mel."

Michael followed Frank's clue to the front of the bar.  Melanie, with her back turned towards
them, was inspecting the dance floor and immediate tables in an apparent quest to find where
they had decided to sit.  The same pillar that had provided some solitude from the annoying
masses was now obstructing Mel's view of their table.  Michael fought the urge to walk up and
let her know where they were sitting and elected instead to simply allow his eyes to drink in the
intoxication of her form, the soft, angelic line of her profile, the heavenly innocence of her
carriage, the exquisite chestnut locks that playfully fell along her back.     

"Doesn't she look beautiful?"  Frank didn't bother to respond.  

The bartender who had poured Michael's most recent gift to his liver stepped forward to whisper
something in Melanie's ear, perhaps a request of more olives for the lower bar was denied. 
The message sent Melanie on her way.  Michael followed her path until the last of her glow was
swallowed by the morbid sea of depraved beings that ebbed and flowed around the vast room if
for no other reason than to add to his distress.  He was drowning.  The idea of her even being in
the same vicinity as such a morally corrupt mob, the thought of them brushing against her,
breathing her air, made him physically ill.   

"I need another one."  Michael collected his glass with some difficulty and managed to find his
way back to the bar.  He lazily reclined against the rail, more out of necessity than choice, and
patiently waited for the bartender to finish handling a few customers at the far end from where
he was currently rooted.  His restless fingers found a way to fumble the shot glass they were
entrusted to protect, and it fell from his hand, bouncing a quick hop off the counter before he
smothered it with his palm and wrestled it back to an upright position.  Fearing that some might
consider this a sign he needed to be cut off, he spun an anxious glance in all directions and was
satisfied that no one was even paying him the slightest attention.  Michael carefully took three
more ones from his wallet and placed them beside his glass in anticipation of the bartender's
return.  He spent the wait eyeing up the varieties of alcohol that were hidden under the counter
across from him and recollecting times when each labeled bottle had sent him into a delirious,
spinning realm of blessed nausea.  Jagermeister, Jack Daniel's, Fire Water, Scotch, Bourbon,
Schnapps, Rum... they had all at one time or another retched his stomach contents to the floor
with considerable malice.  Usually the final struggle and resulting hangover was so debilitating
that the flavor of inducement was shunned until its mere thought no longer inspired dry heaves. 
But not vodka.  No matter how much he drank or how sick he got, he was never turned off
vodka.  It was always there for him.  Vodka was truth.

"You want another one, hun?"

"Yes, please."  Michael pushed the three dollars forward and accepted his shot.  

"Thanks." 

Michael stood up and drained the tumbler with ease, returning it to the counter before forcing
himself back to his table.  He sat slouched and beaten.

"You sure you don't want to walk around?" questioned Frank.  "I don't want to miss Ruga."  

"Is he bringing his woman?"

"Yeah."

"What's her name again?"

"Julie."

"That's right."  Michael knew that he had been introduced to Ruga's girlfriend before but could
not recall the exact circumstances of the meeting.  Yet in his current state, even recognizing her
name was a noteworthy accomplishment.  It called for a drink.  He needed another drink.  "What
time were they supposed to be here?"

"He said around midnight.  They had to stop at his uncle's first though, so he could be a little
late."

"What time is it now?"

"Like ten after twelve.  Why don't we move down by the door so we can see when he comes in?"

"Yeah, whatever.  I don't care."  Michael once again staggered to his feet and did his best to trail
Frank through the virulent crowd, completely oblivious to the faces turning his way.  He stared
straight ahead and concentrated on Frank's back, stalking the green knit pullover shirt as it wove
in and out of a maze of strange arms and shoulders and hips.  The duo survived unscathed upon
the lower level and decided to set up camp at a small circular table in plain sight of the main
entrance and almost in the exact spot where Melanie had first met them.  The table was
neglected earlier in compliance with her suggestion of sitting at the upper bar.  

As Frank sat down, Michael hesitated.  "Let me get another shot while I'm up."  He drifted
effortlessly across to his new oasis, bolstered by the promise of ambrosia.  After procuring
another shot of Absolut, Michael cautiously dodged some passing traffic, breathing a sigh of
relief when he returned to the safety of the table without spilling a drop of his life's 
blood.  He placed the glass in the middle of the table and marveled at the liquid wonder 
held within, silently offering grateful tribute to the wheat that was sacrificed to 
make it possible. 

"There you are!"  Melanie had appeared from nowhere.  Her siren voice was enough to pry
Michael's eyes from the holy grail before him.  They rose to see all that was good and lovely in
the world that didn't come with a twist-off cap.  Even the product of Sweden's finest grain
couldn't hold a candle to Melanie's brilliant light.  Michael's smile met hers and for a brief
moment his existence didn't seem so dreary.  Then he remembered.  His smile withered and
choked.  

Frank stepped in to offer an unnecessary explanation of their southern migration.  "Yeah, we
moved down here because we're meeting someone and didn't want to miss them." 

Melanie gave Frank a courteous nod of recognition and then turned her attention back to
Michael, illuminating him with her full blaze.  She noticed the shot glass.  "No Jager?"

"No," a shy smile crawled back to his lips.  "Not today."

"What is it?"

"Vodka."

Mel startled a bit, she had never known Michael to drink vodka.  Somehow it seemed too hard
and brutal for him.  The surprise quickly faded and she pointed to it with gleeful command:
"Drink it!" 

Michael raised a hand in modest protest, "No, I better pace myself.  I've already had ten or so."

Mel's eyes grew wide.  

"He's just joking," interjected Frank, thrusting an arm in front of Michael.  "He's only done two
or three here."  

"Here," echoed Michael with intent.

"Are you okay?" asked Mel.  

"Yeah, I'm fine."  Her apparent concern brought his previously dead smile back to life.                  
                  
"Maybe I should bring you some water."

"Honest, I'm fine," smiled Michael reassuringly.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Melanie stepped back, never taking her eyes or smile from Michael's appreciative nature, and
slowly turned and went off to check on her other tables.  Frank punctuated her departure by
drilling Michael in the shoulder.

"Don't tell her you've done ten shots!"

"Why?"

"You don't want her to think you're hammered!"

"She knows I can hold my liquor.  Believe me, this girl knows I can drink.  Don't worry about it."

On Melanie's next trip to their table she brought two glasses of water, one with a lemon wedge
and one without.  Michael's head tilted with affection at the kindness of the gesture.  Melanie
mirrored the subtle movement and cheerfully floated away without speaking a word.  

"Aw, see, she remembered my distaste of citrus.  How sweet is that?"

"Yeah, that's great," replied Frank with little interest as he guzzled his lemon-flavored water. 
"I'm really thirsty.  You gonna drink yours?"

"No, you can have it."  Frank helped himself.  "But seriously, how sweet was that of her to make
a special trip to bring us water?  We didn't even ask for it.  She did it strictly out of 
concern for me.  And she remembered about the lemon."

Frank let Michael enjoy the moment.  Michael celebrated with his eleventh shot.  "She looks
happy, doesn't she?"

"Yeah."  Frank finished the last of the water.  "And I think it's pretty obvious she still 
likes you.  What are you gonna do?"

"I don't know.  I just get the feeling she's putting on an act.  Like she's only being this 
nice to me because I surprised her by showing up.  But then why'd she hug me before I even 
saw her?  She could have just pretended she didn't see me."

"She's the one that initiated contact," supported Frank in an effort to stir the pot.

"She just seems different.  It's different between us now.  It doesn't feel the same."      

"I don't know how it could."

"I'm trying to see her as I used to, but all I can think about is how she lied to me.  I love 
her, but she lied to me.  By acting the way she is tonight she's still lying to me.  It's 
no longer pure, it's all fake.  Everything between us is fake."

Michael tipped his empty shot glass above his mouth and let the final surviving trickle of vodka
roll slowly onto his waiting tongue.  Replenished, he continued.  

"And if that's all it was I'd be fine with it.  I'd never even look back.  But I know deep 
down the girl I fell in love with is still there.  And I know she feels the same about me.  
She's just too scared to let me get close enough to find out the truth.  She thinks if I found 
out who she really was, what she really did, I wouldn't like her anymore.  But that insecurity 
is why I do love her so much.  But I can't force her to be honest with herself.  I can't force 
her to be honest with me.  I can't force her to let me love her.  There's nothing more I can 
do.  Is there?  Is there something else I can do?"

Frank was distracted.  A parade of passing skirts had stolen his devotion.  

"I did all I could, right?"  His appeals falling short, Michael reached out and seized Frank 
by the arm.  

"Oh, sorry, what?"

"I did all I could, right?"  

"With Mel?"

"Yes."

"Oh yeah, no doubt."

"I'm not letting her down, am I?  I did all I could, right?"

"You did all anyone could.  You can't change people."

Michael didn't want to change Melanie.  He wanted to save her.  His head dropped with defeat. 
Yet tonight still offered a slim ray of hope.  She was back in his life again for at least 
this night.  The possibility for a happy ending, however slim, remained.  Who could say what 
the night would bring?  There was still a chance.  He lifted his head with renewed purpose 
and began sifting through the filth around him for her light.  She was no more than thirty 
feet away, gracefully hovering at the opposite side of the bar waiting for the bartender to 
fill an order for her tray.  She seemed completely removed from the throngs of people 
milling about.  Melanie stood alone above it all.  Then Michael realized she wasn't alone.  

Despite her face showing no signs of expression, someone was talking to her.  Someone dared
talk to her.  He was sitting at the bar and looked to be no more than 21 or 22.  Blond curly hair. 
Nothing of importance.  Yet this audacious young man was talking to her.  His full attention was
focused on Melanie.  It never wavered.  Michael looked to her.  She was blank.  Michael looked
to him.  He was smiling.  He was smiling at Melanie.  Michael began to think what it would be
like to drive his fist through the face of a 21 year-old punk with blond curly hair.  Michael
couldn't read the little weasel's lips but they were still flapping.  They wouldn't be able 
to move so freely with a broken jaw.  Then it happened.  Melanie reached for a napkin and 
produced a pen from the change purse strapped to her waist.  

"What the fuck is she doing?"

"What?" asked Frank.

"Melanie."  Michael pointed her out for him.  "What the fuck is she doing?"

They both watched as Melanie wrote something on the napkin and handed it to its anxious
recipient.      

"She just gave him her number," surrendered Michael with pained shock, his eyes still trained on
the sickening spectacle.  He knew this was who she was, this was what she did, but seeing it for
the first time with his own eyes somehow made it real.  It was no longer just stories passed along
from an abundance of sources.  It was real.  He had seen it. 

The young man looked at the napkin, smiled, said something else to Melanie and then got up and
left.  For her part, Melanie was extremely business like, almost as if she was bored by the
proceedings.  She never smiled at him or even seemed to utter a single word for that matter.  But
she didn't have to.  She gave him her number.  She'd be talking to him at some point in the
future.  

Frank found considerable humor in the transaction.  He wanted to say something to comfort his
friend but could do little to stifle the reflexive laughter that was now bellowing from his lungs. 
"Sorry, man!" 

"She doesn't see me for two months and acts all excited to see me, but then she goes and gives
her number to some guy right fuckin' in front of me!" raged Michael.  "Like she can't take off
one night from being a filthy whore!  Like it would have killed her to tell him to come back
tomorrow night.  Right in front of me!"

"I'm sorry," began Frank, removing his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes.  "I don't mean to
laugh, but you gotta admit it's kind of funny."  

"That's it.  It's over.  I'm done with her.  I keep thinking that maybe..."  He paused.  "No.  I'm
done."

Michael continued to stare at Melanie.  She was still waiting for her drink order with no idea
that her previous actions had been witnessed from across the room.  Michael asked himself how
he could have fallen in love with her.  Deep down, he knew all along she wasn't the right girl for
him, just as sure as he knew now that he was still in love with her.  Even in the wake of 
what just transpired she remained the picture of fragile innocence.  He wanted to race to 
her side.  He wanted to hold her and protect her.  She needed protection.  She needed someone 
to take care of her and love her.  Michael knew this.  He also knew that she'd never allow it.    

At the precise moment when he was most lost, Melanie finally felt his gaze upon her and looked
up.  Her face immediately brightened and her trademark shy smile was answered by one of his
own.  Michael waved to her and Melanie laughed.  Apparently she either never considered that
Michael could have seen her give out her number or she simply didn't care.  He was smiling at
her and she was happy.  That's all she knew.  Her order filled, Melanie picked up her tray and
went back to work.  

Tony Ruga and his girlfriend Julie arrived about twelve thirty.  They were a happy, handsome
young couple, exactly the kind one would expect to find at a night club.  And they dressed the
part.  Michael took particular note of the knee-high black boots that complimented Julie's long
slender frame.  She was a wispy blonde of undeniable loveliness.  Hand in hand with her
formidable physical traits, Julie also brought with her a sense of maturity that made her all the
more attractive.  Dignity was a hard thing to pull off at the Twilight Zone, especially when
wearing a sleeveless red satin blouse, a short black skirt, and knee-high boots, but she somehow
turned the trick.  Yet she hardly registered with Michael.  All he could do was imagine what
Melanie would look like in those boots.

"Malloy!" hollered Ruga.  He extended a hand to Michael.  "It's been a long time, man, how've
you been?"

"You know, the usual."  Michael shook Ruga's hand with sincerity and nodded a grinning hello
to Julie as she settled onto a stool opposite him.  "It's been a while."

"Yeah, it has.  You still writing your book?"

"Yeah.  I finished it a couple weeks ago.  Started sending it out to places."

"That's awesome."  Ruga turned to Julie.  "Did I ever tell you Malloy was a writer?"

"No, I don't think you did.  What's the book about?"

"Life, love, depression... I guess that sums it up.  If those are even three different things.  I don't
know."

"It's funny though too, right?" asked Frank.

"Yeah, a bit.  I usually just tell people it's a lot like '101 Dalmatians'... except with 
more dogs."  A few confused smiles looked back at him.  "Don't worry, that'll be a lot 
funnier after a few drinks."

"Speaking of which," Ruga turned once again to Julie, "what do you want?"

"I don't care.  Maybe one of those blackberry things if they have them."

"Okay.  Malloy, what are you having?"

"Are you gonna buy me a drink?" asked Michael with expectant glee.

"It's the least I can do."

"Aw, what a guy.  I'll take a shot of vodka, please."

"Frank?"

"Nothin' for me, thanks."

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

While Ruga was away at the bar, Julie and Frank were having some sort of discussion about
something.  Michael didn't care.  He had a shot of vodka on its way.  He accepted its arrival with
both hands and promptly threw it back with frightening ease, not once displaying the slightest
hint of tasting its powerful potency.  The empty glass was on the table before Ruga could sit
down.  As Michael passed the knuckle of his right index finger across his lips in slow
meaningful appreciation of what he'd just done, Ruga and Julie both gave Frank a somewhat
troubled look.  Frank simply smiled and shrugged his shoulders.    

"Damn," said Ruga as he lowered himself onto his stool.  "That was impressive."

"That was straight vodka?" asked Julie.

"Sure," answered Michael plainly.  "Nothing tastes worse than the first shot of vodka, but
nothing tastes better than the tenth."

"You've done ten shots?" asked Ruga, beating Julie to the question by the slimmest of margins.

"No, actually I think that was twelve."

Julie and Ruga both turned to Frank.  The statement was confirmed.  

"Is that girl here?" asked Ruga.

"What?" 

"I told them about Mel," explained Frank.

"Oh," said Michael.  "Yeah, she's here."

"Did you talk to her?"

"Yeah.  Little bit."

"How'd it go?"

"Fine."

"We saw her give her number to another guy!" laughed Frank.

"Really?" smiled Ruga.  "Damn.  No wonder you're drinking so much."

"I could care less what she does at this point.  I'm done."

"Where's she at?"

Michael looked around and spotted Melanie across the room clearing drinks from a recently
emptied table.  He pointed her out.  "That's her."

Ruga studied her a moment.  "What's her name?"

"Melanie Sayre."  

"Mel Sayre!  I thought she looked familiar.  Yeah, I went out with her once."

Michael's shoulders sank.  He looked first to Frank, who shared in the surprise, and then back to
Ruga.  Words weren't making themselves available.  

Frank's laughter had returned.  A moment of clarity stopped him long enough to point a finger at
Ruga and say:  "She was the girl from the candy store!"

"Yeah, she worked at that little candy place in the middle of the mall.  That's how I met her. 
Remember when I worked at Nordic Track?"  Michael nodded.  "That candy place was right
across from it."

Frank swatted Michael in the arm to get his attention.  "Remember how every time we're at the
mall and we pass that place I tell ya how Ruga used to date a really hot girl that worked there? 
That was Mel!  I knew she always looked familiar."  The laughter continued.   

"I didn't recognize her at first, didn't she used to be blonde?" asked Ruga.

"Yeah, she just darkened it not too long ago," supplied Michael grudgingly as he considered how
this night could possibly get more humiliating.  

It dawned on Ruga that Michael wasn't exactly enjoying this stroll down memory lane.  He lifted
a hand as if to halt any ill feelings emanating from his friend.  "Don't worry, we didn't do
anything.  Honest.  We only went out once."

"Don't worry about me, worry about her," smiled Michael, tossing a nod Julie's direction.  "If I
was going to fight every guy that Melanie's been with I'd die of exhaustion long before I reached
the Rs."

Despite Michael's attempt at levity it was apparent that his mood was slipping into a depressed
state.  Julie tried to change the evening's direction.

"Who wants to dance?"

"Okay," agreed Ruga, taking a final belt from his beer.  "You guys comin'?"

"Yeah, I'll go," said Frank.

"Malloy?"

"No, that's okay."

"C'mon!" said Julie.  She had decided that the raising of Michael's spirits would be her pet
project for the evening.  

"I don't dance."

"But it's fun!" 

"I hate fun." 

"How do you expect to get a girl with that kind of attitude?" 

"I'm relying heavily on pity."  

Julie couldn't help but comply with a pitying smile.  "So you're just going to sit here all by
yourself?"

"It's okay, you three go have fun.  I'll be perfectly happy right here.  Maybe if Melanie sees me
alone she'll come over.  Don't worry about me.  Go.  Have fun."

"All right."

Michael wasn't alone more than a minute before Melanie slipped in
beside him.  "Hi!"

"Hey."

She motioned to the bottles on the table.  "I see your friends got here."

"Yeah."

"Where'd they go?"

"They're dancing."

"That's what I figured when I saw you here alone.  I knew you wouldn't go dancing."  Her
accompanying smile flushed Michael with modesty.  "You want me to get you another drink?"

"Sure.  Vodka."

Mel picked his glass from the table and returned a moment later with its healthier twin.  Michael
insisted on paying for it.  Michael watched hypnotically as reflections of red and green light
danced in the clear, crisp surface of the vodka with each gentle caress upon the base of 
the glass.  Melanie leaned forward on the table.  Michael looked up and heard a question that 
he had once dreamed Melanie would ask him. 

"You gonna need a ride home tonight?"

There it was.  He could have her.  She was his for the taking.  She was everyone's for the taking.

"No," he lashed.  "Absolutely not."  

Melanie was taken aback by the blunt force of the reply.  It wasn't the answer she expected and it
was spoken in a decidedly foreign tone.  She had never heard him speak to her like that, so
brutal, so sharp.  Flustered, she did her best to collect herself.

"I just wanted to make sure you're all right."  

"I'm fine."  Michael was no longer looking at her.  

"Okay."  

Melanie began to ease her way past Michael on her way to a few tables behind him when she
heard his voice once more.  

"Like you care anyway."

The words, heavy with despair, slammed into Melanie.  Her legs almost went out from under
her.  She hesitated a moment and then fled to the far side of the room, completely bypassing the
customers in the nearby tables that were her original goal.  She needed distance.  

As soon as Michael said the words he regretted them.  It wasn't his plan to let her know how
much she had hurt him.  All he wanted to do was see her again, reinforce to her that he was her
friend, and then go home depressed.  That's it.  He had no desire to get involved in a deep
emotional discussion about what she meant to him or why she had destroyed him.  He just
wanted freedom.  He wanted out.

Frank returned to the table.  "Did you talk to Mel?"

"Yeah."

"Well..."

"She asked if I needed a ride home."

"What did you say?" asked Frank excitedly, a very large smile breaking in honor of his friend's
impending fortune.  

"I told her no."

"What?"  Disbelief.  "Are you insane?  She wanted to take you home!"

"I don't know.  Maybe."

"And you said no?"

Michael nodded slowly.

"You didn't have to do anything," argued Frank.  "You could have just let her take you home.  I
think you guys just need to be alone so you can talk."

"What's the point?  I doubt she'd be honest with me anyway.  And what am I gonna say to her,
'Oh yeah, by the way, I heard you're a filthy whore.'  I don't want to talk to her about 
that stuff, but how can I be around her without talking about it?"

"I guess."

"The worst part is I was kind of rude to her."

Ruga and Julie found their way back to the table, both slightly out of breath.  Frank didn't even
wait for them to sit down.  "Mel asked if he needed a ride home!"

"What did you say?" questioned Ruga with a grin.

"He said no!"

More disbelief.  

"I'm sure it was innocent," defended Michael, slowly turning the still full shot glass in 
his hand.  "She was just probably concerned for me as a friend."

"Yeah, that was probably it," agreed Julie.  Even she didn't believe it.  

"I just feel bad because I was kind of rude to her.  I really should go apologize.  Do you see her
anywhere?"  Michael drained his thirteenth shot.  His three tablemates were all straining their
necks to search the room for the entire evening's catalyst. 

"There she is," said Julie.  

Ruga and Frank honed in on her as well, but before Michael could turn to follow their lead Frank
grabbed his arm and warned, "Don't look."

"What?" 

Frank was smiling as he stared over Michael's head to some point in the distance.  He repeated
his warning.  "Don't look."

Naturally, Michael spun around to look but could see only a structural support.  "What's goin'
on?"

"Isn't that Brian Brukowski?" asked Ruga.

Michael gave up trying to see for himself and switched his attention to Ruga's recent question. 
"Who?"

"That is Bruke!" laughed Frank.  

"Who?" 

"He went to high school with me and Frank," explained Ruga.  "Yeah, that's him."

Michael started to catch on.  "Is she giving him her number?"

"Yeah," said Frank with more apprehensive laughter.  

"Unbelievable!" moaned Michael.  

"It's probably not like that," offered Ruga. 

"Yeah," joined Frank, "Brian's a good guy."

"I don't fuckin' care!"  Michael felt the muscles in his body tightening.  His right hand, which
was previously resting lightly on the table's surface, was now contorted into a violently
constrained fist, knuckles strained white against skin.  "It's not his character I'm worried about."  

Michael looked around the table.  All three faces were still occupied.   

"Wait, hold on a sec.  Okay..." said Frank, stretching for time.   All three faces now looked to
Michael.  "He's gone."

"I just so want to hit something right now," admitted Michael through clenched teeth, his chest
expanded, thin bones aching beneath the taut muscles of his hand.

"Calm down," said Ruga.  "You don't know, maybe she's giving them fake numbers?"

"I doubt it.  It's all just so frustrating!"  Michael ran his hands through his hair.  "You guys don't
understand.  For months I thought she was one person, and then BANG!  Out of nowhere I
find out she's not who I thought she was."  

"Some people are like that," offered Julie in an attempt to console.

"And she won't be honest with me.  She won't let me get any closer to her.  I mean, I was right
there!  It looked like we were going to start going out and then she just cut me off 
completely.  I think she was afraid I'd find out the truth about her and she didn't want me 
to know that side of her.  But I know about it.  It doesn't matter to me.  And I can't tell her 
it doesn't matter because then I'd be admitting that I know that other side of her.  The 
whole thing's just a mess."  Michael's body collapsed, as if free from a burden.  He 
leaned forward with his elbows on the table and held his head up with both hands.  He wished 
he had another shot. 

"I only went out with her that one time but she was kind of weird," supported Ruga.  "Like when
I'd see her at work and stuff after that she'd still be all happy but she'd act like she 
barely knew me.  That's why I never even bothered to ask her out again.  She was just strange."

"I don't know," said Michael dejectedly.  "I just want to let her know I'm still her friend 
and then get out of here."

"She's over there by herself now," said Frank.

Michael lifted his head from his hands.  "Really?  Okay."  He pulled himself to his feet and was
impressed by his sobriety.  Usually it wasn't until he stood up that the effects of a 
serious night of drinking became apparent, but his head wasn't spinning.  Melanie's presence 
must have neutralized the alcohol.  His count of reasons to resent her increased by one.

When Michael swung from behind the column that had spared him the sight of her giving out
her number a second time, he saw Melanie making her way to the bar with an empty glass in
each hand.  It must have been getting late.  The entire front section of the club had cleared out. 
Michael reached her a few feet from the bar.

"I just wanted to apologize for snapping at you back there.  I didn't mean to..."

Melanie cut in.  "No, that's okay."  She was smiling.  "I was afraid you thought I was awful for
not calling you.  I really did lose your number.  I looked everywhere for that card you gave me
and couldn't find it."

"That's okay.  Don't worry about it."

"You know me, I can't even remember drink orders."    

Michael tried to smile but all he could think of was if his number had been important to her she
wouldn't have lost it.  If he had been important to her she would have asked his friends about
him.  He wanted to tell her this and other things, the things he had heard.  He wanted to be
honest.  But he couldn't.  She was right beside him yet she had never been more remote.  

"You know how I feel about you."  He stated it as fact.  

Melanie's eyes lowered.  "I know."  

"It's not gonna work out, is it?" 

"No."  Her answer was completely devoid of emotion.  She would have given the exact same
reply had someone asked her if it was raining outside.  Michael sensed that this was not the first
time she had taken part in such a conversation.  

"I can't be one of many."

At first Melanie didn't know what to make of the line.  Her eyes narrowed as she seemed to
contemplate its meaning.  Then she smiled and added, "Yeah, I know."   

"You just don't want to get involved with anyone do you?"

"No."  Melanie unleashed her big soft eyes on Michael.  She was still holding the empty glasses.  
 
"That's cool, I understand."  He looked away as he spoke the words, not wanting to betray their
sincerity.  There.  It was over.  It was done.  "I've missed you very much."

"I've missed you."

"I used to really look forward to seeing you every week."

"Me too," admitted Melanie, the speed of her response contradicting her cool exterior.  

Just then a third party intervened.  "Let's go, Mel."

Michael traced the command to its source and saw the back of a rather large man in a Twilight
Zone t-shirt walking away from them, heading towards the dance floor.  He must have been one
of her bosses.  That made three people Michael wanted to fight.  

"I'm sorry," said Michael.  "Now I got you in trouble with that guy..."   

"No, it's okay," smiled Melanie.

Michael waved a hand carelessly.  "Well, I'll be over there."  He could feel Melanie smiling at
him as he departed.  

Michael assured his friends he was all right, freeing them to return to the dance floor.  He sat
alone quietly, without a drink, waiting for the night to end.  This time Melanie didn't visit him. 
Julie did return once to try and persuade him to dance with her, but he politely declined.  At two
o'clock, the music abruptly stopped and white fluorescent lights chased away the darkness. 
Closing time.  Drunken patrons spilled their way to the exits.  As they passed his table, Michael
wondered how many of them were carrying a napkin with Mel's phone number in their pocket.  

Frank, Ruga, and Julie were three of the last ones to descend the stairs.  Julie informed Michael
that Mel was still up there.  It was all the invitation needed.  

"I want to say good-bye to her.  I'll meet you guys outside."

Michael reached the top of the stairs in time to see Melanie cross directly in front of his 
path and swing behind the bar, depositing an armful of empty bottles in the garbage.    

"Mel..." called Michael.  She didn't hear him.  The second try was more successful.  She was
happy to see him.  Michael smiled and walked towards her.  "I'm taking off.  Take care of
yourself.  You know I'm your friend."

Melanie blushed.  "I know."  

Michael smiled and took a step towards the exit.  Melanie wouldn't let him leave so easily.

"So you're not gonna come out and see me anymore?" she asked.  

"You know I don't like this place."

"Yeah."  

"And I get the feeling you really don't want me here."

"It's not that.  But I know you hate this place..."  

"I'll come out to see you if you want me to."  It was a hollow promise.  Images of her giving out
her number besieged him.  He couldn't endure such a painful night again.  "But I get the feeling
you don't want me here."

"I know you hate this place.  I don't want you to be here if you don't want to be here.  And it's
pretty stupid how I only get to say hi to you like once every twenty-five minutes."  

Michael suddenly realized that they were the only two people on the upper level of the club.  He
wanted to leave.  He desperately wanted to leave. 

"Do you still go to Wild Wings?" asked Melanie.  Michael detected a shy hope in her voice.  He
could make a date with her.  All he had to do was say yes.  

"No."  

"How come?"

"Justine got fired.  So we quit going out there."

"Nuh uh!  She got fired!"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"She was upset they kept making her cover for people so she just didn't come in one day, and
they fired her.  She's workin' at Sharky's now."

"No she isn't!"  

"She isn't?"

"No, I mean, I just can't believe she's working there."  

"I don't know, I haven't talked to her in a week or so.  I haven't been out to see her yet."

"I can't believe she got fired."  Melanie filled herself a cup of Coke from a spray nozzle behind
the bar.  "The last time she was in here she was really cold to me.  I don't know why."

"I know why."  And with that a subject he vowed to keep festering deep within his ravaged chest
was brought to the surface, no doubt carried there upon the ample shoulders of alcohol.

"Is she mad at me or something?"

"Well, you know she's going out with that Anthony guy."

"No, I don't.  I don't know who that is."

"Yeah, you do.  You went out with him once."

"I don't know who you're talking about.  I don't even know anyone named Anthony."

"Yes, you do.  You went out with him once a while back."

"Don't tell me who I went out with."

"Just play along.  You went out with him."

"No, I didn't!  I don't even know who you're talking about."

At that moment another waitress came wandering up from the bottom level.  Michael and
Melanie both watched as she sauntered up to the bar.  "I've got two guys waiting to meet me later
tonight."  The lurid proclamation was spoken with boastful pride, her body swishing to
accentuate each and every word.  It wasn't until she had made her way completely behind the bar
that she realized Michael was present and that she had interrupted something of at least
moderate importance.  The pride in her face was supplanted by embarrassment.  

"Can you give me a minute?" requested Melanie.  The girl turned heel and hastily retraced her
steps without another sound.  Meanwhile, Michael was trying to ignore the fact that Melanie
now kept company with a girl that would go and meet two guys at three o'clock in the morning.  

Melanie turned back to Michael and picked up where she left off.   "I'm telling you I don't know
this guy."       

"He's kind of tall, thin, blonde... balding."

"Oh, him."

"Yeah, him."

"That was a long time ago.  He just said he wanted to hang out and go bike riding and hiking and
stuff like that.  He just wanted to be friends."

"I never said you did anything with him, just that you knew him.  Anyway, he says that the last
time he was in here you asked him how he was doing and he said that him and Justine were
having some problems.  Then you gave him your number and told him to call you to go out.  And
when he said, 'Aren't you friends with Justine?' you said 'No, Justine's not my friend.'"

"That's a lie.  He's lying."

Michael shrugged his shoulders with indifference.  

"He's lying," demanded Melanie.  "That never happened.  He had my number from before." 

"Justine didn't believe it either at first but she asked a bartender and the bartender saw 
you give him your number."

"Which bartender?"

"I don't know."  Michael felt sick.  He didn't want to be having this debate.  

"It's not true."

"Well, that's why Justine is mad at you.  And when I heard about it I was mad at you."  Michael
paused.  "And I heard other things..."

"Like what?" asked Melanie, unable to hide her nervousness.

"I don't want to say."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll hate me."

"C'mon, tell me."  She was no longer the aloof, unemotional girl she had been all evening.  Her
control over him had been lost.  She knew it.  "What did you hear?"  

"I don't want to say."  Michael couldn't look at her.

"Don't you think I have a right to know what people are saying about me?"  The panic she felt
was turning to anger.

"I don't want to say it."

"What does it matter, Mike, if you already know."  Michael looked at her.  She was so beautiful. 
"What did you hear?  Tell me."

Michael lowered his head.  His frail body hung limp, stretched with misery.  He didn't want to
say it.  He had begged her not to make him say it.  "You used to take everybody home."

"That's a lie!" cried Melanie.  

Michael didn't answer.  

"Who told you that?" 

Michael searched his brain for a name he could afford to give up.  "Mary Jo... and others. 
People I didn't even know were coming up to me and telling me stuff."

"They're all lying!"  Michael forced himself to look at her.  She was visibly shaken.  He wanted
to hold her.  "It's not true!"

"See, now you hate me," said Michael, in little more than a whisper.

"I don't hate you."

"I wanted to come see you after I sent you the flowers, but then I started to hear..."

"It's not true.  They're all lies.  They're lying to you."

Michael tried to tell her that it didn't matter, it didn't change how he felt about her, 
but Melanie didn't seem to hear him.  She was too busy denying the accusations.  

"I don't want to talk about it."  She threw her still full cup of Coke into the sink and began to
make her way out.  "It's been a long night.  I don't want to talk about this now."

"You hate me."

"I don't hate you, Mike."  She clipped a quick look at him as she spoke his name.  "I don't want
to talk about this."  She quickly turned her back to him and headed for the stairs.  

Michael followed, drawing upon all the resources he had left to propel him after her.  "Mel!"

She didn't bother to turn or even slow her pace.  "I don't feel like defending myself against this
trash with you."

"Mel, c'mon, don't do this," pleaded Michael.  He darted down the steps and reached forward to
grab her hand.  The instant his hand touched hers she stopped.  She stopped so quickly that
Michael's own momentum carried him a few steps beyond her.  When he turned to look at her,
she was trembling.  Her eyes were roaming the ceiling, her arms were folded in front of her, and
she was trembling.  

He didn't think it was possible, but Michael felt even worse.  He was helpless.  He couldn't make
himself look at her.  They stood there silently, neither one knowing quite what to do.  Melanie
broke first.

"I've gotta get my shit."

He never heard her swear before.  Well, once.  But she corrected herself and apologized
afterwards.  

"I don't know when I'm going to see you again..."  He looked up to find that his words were
wasted.  Melanie was already gone, streaking her way around the far side of the bar and heading
back to the upper level of the club.  Michael was going to wait for her to return, but then he
remembered what happened to Jerry the last time he came out to see her.  There could be a back
door up there.  He set after her.  

All the other employees were grouped at the opposite side of the bar, no doubt taking voyeuristic
pleasure in Michael's suffering.  Michael didn't care.  He stormed past them in his pursuit of
Melanie without even considering their existence.  They wisely kept to themselves.  

Michael had never been in this part of the club before.  It wasn't until he noticed light seeping
from behind a walled partition that he realized where she had gone.  He turned the corner and
saw Melanie alone in a small room.  She was putting on her coat, a green backpack resting
against her right leg.  She hadn't seen him.  Michael felt awful for not trusting her and stepped
back from the door and waited.  

Melanie casually emerged a few seconds later with the backpack now slung over her right
shoulder.  She was the picture of composure.  She looked at Michael as if none of the earlier
events had taken place.  He knew it was useless. 

"I thought you bailed on me," said Michael.  

"I wouldn't do that to you," said Melanie.  Michael couldn't tell if she was intentionally mocking
him or if she honestly forgot about the last time he came out to see her.  Either way he was not
amused.  

He followed her back down the stairs until she stopped directly in front of the bar where her
fellow co-workers were lounging.  It wasn't by accident.  She tilted her head forward and used
both hands to pull her hair from the top of her coat and said, "You be careful going home." 

Michael didn't even bother to look at her.  He gently raised his left hand to her shoulder as 
if to touch her one final time, then quickly withdrew it.  "Yeah, you take it easy."  He 
turned and made retreat.  His chin fell to his chest.  Had he walked any slower he'd have 
been going backwards.  He could feel the eyes of the other employees.  He was sure they'd 
be asking her, "Who was that?"  He was just as certain she'd answer, "Nobody."  

He ran his left hand through his hair and let out an involuntary sigh.  As his one-man funeral
procession continued, he began to grasp the finality of the situation.  This could very well 
be the last time he ever saw her.  And this was how he was going to let it end?  He was just 
going to walk out?  He knew he had hurt her.  He hated himself for it.  Why couldn't he had 
just kept his mouth shut?  He was walking up the ramp to the main doors.  His head still 
lowered, his steps deliberate.  His right arm flashed across his body.  He heard a loud 
pop.  White dust appeared on the ground before him as he watched his feet carry him closer to 
the exit.  He looked at his hand.  It was covered with similar dust and there were scuff marks 
on his knuckles.  He kept walking.  

Frank, Ruga, and Julie were waiting for him outside.  They were the only people there.  The
parking lot was empty.  They must have heard the popping sound too.  

"Did you punch a hole in the wall?" asked Ruga.

"Yeah."  Michael still didn't raise his head.  

"You know you shouldn't do that."

"I know."  The others exchanged hasty farewells.  When he reached the car, Michael turned
around to see if anyone had followed him from the club.  No one had.  

"What do you want to do?" asked Frank.  

Michael waited a moment to make sure no one was going to come out to challenge him.  The
doors were quiet.  "Let's get the fuck out of here."



CHAPTER TWO (Justine) 
         
How long had she been sleeping?  She wasn't sure.  All she knew was that the pain had returned. 
She must be awake now.  The pain must have awakened her.  She had become so accustomed to
the ever-present dull ache in her abdomen that she no longer took note of the days she felt sick;
she marked the minutes she felt fine.  She would look at others and try to remember what it was
like to not have pain.  She'd stare at their stomachs and imagine hers was as quiet, as healthy. 
Why couldn't hers be quiet?  It was quiet once.  Now it hurt.  Everything hurt.  

She was lying on the living room couch.  She didn't even remember falling asleep.  Someone had
covered her with blankets to keep her warm.  Must have been Matt.  The clock above the TV
said it was 3:30.  It had to be 3:30 in the afternoon.  The blinds were drawn but enough light
forced through to provide proof of day.  It was the only light in the room.  Some fell along the
bottom of the blankets, bringing forth the oranges and reds of the quilted design.  Her stomach
was probably all fiery oranges and burning reds.  She tried to think of her stomach as clean and
smooth, like sterling metal.  Cold to the touch.  Strong.  But she knew it must really be cratered
and raw, irritated and bleeding, oranges and reds.

With great effort, she forced herself up against the arm of the sofa.  She ran a vain hand through
her hair to try and force it back into place.  Like it mattered.  Even the blankets were 
heavy.  She struggled to brush them from her body and swung her legs to the floor.  She 
rested there a moment while the sudden lightheadedness passed.  She had to kick her feet free 
from the blankets.  She gathered her strength and stood up.  

The first few steps were always the most difficult.  Her muscles were sore.  Her legs were slow
to respond.  She reached a hand in front of her as if to brace herself, but there was never
anything there to support her.  She had gotten so used to the movement that it became habit.  She
unknowingly groped the air aimlessly as she made a staggered, deliberate path from the room.
She allowed her shoulder to slide against the wall.  Her legs nearly buckled with each step.  She
kept going.  She had always kept going.  

The bathroom was reached with a sense of accomplishment.  She vomited in the sink.  She
turned on the water and let it run.  The water felt cool on her face.  She cupped some in her hand
and rinsed her mouth.  There was no avoiding the mirror this time.  It was simply right there. 
She stared at her reflection, studying its message.  She once again ran a hand through her 
hair.  It still didn't matter.  Her skin was pallid and drawn.  Her eyelids were 
struggling against their weight.  She tried to remember what it was like to be beautiful.  
She wasn't sure she ever knew.  She had cried so much the past few weeks that there simply 
weren't any tears left in her.  Those rivers had long run dry.  Someone else would have to 
do her crying for her.    

"Are you okay?"

It was Matt.  Justine forced a smile to comfort him.  "Yeah, I'm all right."

"I heard the water running.  I thought you were still sleeping."

Justine remembered and turned off the faucet.  "I just got up."

"Do you need help?"

"No, I'm okay."  She turned and smiled, not even knowing that her eyes were closed.  "I was just
on my way back to the couch."

"Let me help." 

Matt's hand was swatted away in protest.  "That's okay, I can do it.  I told you I'm all 
right."  She swayed her way past him and began the return journey.  This time she didn't 
allow herself the benefit of the wall.  She wanted to show Matt how strong she was.  She 
was concentrating so hard on putting one foot in front of the other that she didn't even 
realize he was never more than an inch behind her at all times, arms ready to rescue her at 
the first false step.  He didn't relax until she was back sitting on the couch.  He picked 
the blankets from the floor and placed them next to her.  

"Do you want to lie down again?" asked Matt, straightening her pillows. 

"I think I might sit up for a while."  

"Are you hungry?  Do you feel like eating anything?"

The idea of food made her stomach tumble and spin.  "Not really."

"Are you sure?  I'd feel better if you'd try and eat something.  And you should have something
before you take your pill.  Can I make you some soup?  Soup's good."

"No, thank you."

"How 'bout just some crackers.  Feel like munching on some crackers?"

She knew the suggestions wouldn't end until she said yes.  "Maybe a few."

"Okay, I'll go get you some crackers and water," confirmed Matt as he walked to the windows. 
"Let's get some light in here."  He pushed the curtains back and opened the blinds.  Justine
squinted her eyes to the rushing world.  

"Is that too bright?" worried Matt.

"No, that's fine."  She swallowed hard.  "Did anyone call while I was asleep?"

Matt tried to pretend he didn't hear her and continued adjusting the blinds.  She had asked that
very same question often over the past few weeks.  The answer never changed.     

"Matt?"

He looked at his sister with all the love in his heart.  She returned his love mixed with 
more than a little hope.  He couldn't bear to say the word again.  

"I'll go get you some crackers.  You'll feel better after you eat some crackers." 

Matt hurried along on his mission of goodwill.  He wouldn't be gone more than a minute. 
Justine needed the breather in order to collect herself.  She had to be strong again by the 
time he got back.  It wasn't going to be easy.    

Justine closed her eyes.  She thought of poetry and promises and words left unspoken.  But no
matter how hard she tried, no matter where she looked, there was no one at the end.     



CHAPTER THREE (Mel solo)

It was January.  New year.  New beginnings.  Snow globe turned upside down.  Snow flakes as
big and soft as kind hearts floated the brisk night air, streets glistening with their melting
dissolve.  Headlights cast sparkling yellow light along empty thoroughfares.  Houses and lawns
cloaked in white.  Not a soul except for herself and the car in front of her.  She followed it
through neighborhoods of memory, following the glow of red lights through a picture-perfect
winter world.  Red lights that stopped.  Red lights that warned.  
       
They were driving for far too long.  They had to hurry.  His car turned into an entrance for what
an ice-encrusted sign announced to be the Evergreen Apartments.  She had actually been there
once before, long ago.  She trailed him through the maze of identical buildings.  They were stout
brown structures set off in groups.  Low-income apartments.  A community all its own. 
Hundreds of people piled on top of one another, surrounded on all sides by inconsequential
flesh, unknown neighbors in an ignorant existence.  The roadways were laced with speed bumps,
as if anyone would be racing home to such dwellings.  His car came to a stop.  It was a different
building this time.  Only one light was visible from the outside.  All other windows were
sleeping.  She pulled into a parking spot across the lot from his, facing the exit.  She checked
herself in the rear-view mirror one final time before stepping from safety.  He was already
opening the front door and waving.  She pulled her coat tight and hurried to meet
him.  She forced a smile.  It wouldn't be long now.

The excitement.  It made her forget.  Only the moment mattered.  There was no past.  No future. 
Only the moment.  But she promised herself it was never going to happen again.  This would
be the last.  Her doubts had to wait.  He was opening the door for her.      

His apartment was on the first floor.  She made sure not to remember the address.  He welcomed
her in and took her coat.  

"I'm sorry, it's not real neat."  He hurriedly collected loose clothes and assorted trash from the
area.  "I wasn't expecting company."  

"Don't worry about it.  It's okay."

The room was drab in color and emotion.  The carpet may have never been introduced to a
vacuum.  The furniture in the cramped living area consisted of a two-cushion couch, a chipped
and cluttered coffee table, a broken down easy chair, and a television.  The walls were bare save
for some random absences of tan paint.  There was a definite aroma.     

She made her way to the couch and accepted his offer for a drink.  He rushed to the kitchen,
which was only separated from the living area by the presence of tile flooring.  He was 
chattering on and on about something.  She didn't pay much attention to what he was saying. 
The coffee table in front of her was littered with empty soda cans and used napkins.  A plate
showed evidence of once holding pizza.  There was an ashtray, its contents overflowing onto
neighboring magazines, one of which featured a basketball player in a blue uniform.  She didn't
care for sports.  Two others boasted women in bikinis and lingerie cavorting in various poses of
seduction.  She was about to reach for one of them when he made his return.  He brought back
two glasses and a bottle of peach wine.  The glasses weren't wine glasses.  They weren't glasses
at all but merely yellow plastic cups that could have easily had held apple juice or doubled as
Jell-o molds.  She recognized the wine bottle from the liquor store.  It only cost four 
dollars.  She liked it, though.  She had it many times before.  He began talking about 
something of little importance.  She laughed and smiled.  She didn't listen.  She drank her 
wine and was excited.  

He wasn't as aggressive as some.  It didn't matter.  She needed to forget.  She finished 
her second glass of wine, placing the cup to the left of a young woman in a black leather 
top with pouty lips, and kissed him.  Her action seemed to surprise him.  He was in the midst 
of what he thought was quite the roaring anecdote when her tongue cut him short.  Flustered, 
he attempted to pick up the story where he had left off.  She wouldn't allow it.  His cup of 
wine found the table and he nervously returned her embrace.  He said a silent prayer of thanks 
to whatever god would condone such favors as were about to be bestowed upon him.  

They spent the next few minutes exploring each other, his nervous hands doing their best to take
in as much of her body as possible.  She invited his touch with desperate need.  Closeness.  She
needed closeness.  She offered her breasts.  He was all too willing.  She let her body go limp
under his weight.  She threw her head back and closed her eyes, running her fingers through his
hair as he unhooked the front of her bra.  She could feel him against her and she knew she wasn't
alone.  Her eyes remained closed.  His mouth began making its way down her stomach, his
hands no longer as nervous.  He opened her jeans.  The couch wasn't big enough for such
activity.  He was kneeling on the floor, forcing the coffee table farther away from the couch with
each movement.  She was wearing white panties.  When he tried to pull her jeans from her hips,
he jarred the table once more with his back, sending the bottle of wine onto the bikini-clad
women and the basketball player with the blue uniform.  The noise, and ensuing expletive,
caused her to open her eyes.  He stood the bottle up straight, telling her not to worry about 
it.  He then politely asked if she would like to continue things in the bedroom.    

The little light there was burst from the living room.  It was enough to reveal 
similar afflictions.  Clothes were strewn on any surface that would hold them, including a 
weight bench that housed a bar with three red, circular weights on each end.  The bed wasn't 
made and had the appearance of a recent struggle.  They walked to separate sides of the 
bed.  Without even looking at him once, she kicked off her shoes and dropped her clothes in a 
pile beside them.  She stood naked, more worried about the precise location of her clothes 
than his probing eyes.  He wished he had turned on the bedroom's light.  Thinking quickly, 
he clicked to life the small reading lamp on his nightstand.  He couldn't believe his luck.  
He had never been with anyone like her.  She didn't even notice the increased illumination.  
She merely sat down on the bed with her back towards him and removed her socks.  Her back 
turned, he began to undress.  She made sure everything was in proper order.  Her socks were on 
top of the heap, followed by her panties, bra, jeans, shirt, and shoes, which were black 
boots with heavy rubber soles that added at least three inches to her height.  She made sure 
the laces were loose and the sides stretched just right.  

Convinced of her preparations, she rolled onto her back and waited.  He was talking.  
Saying something.  She didn't care.  He climbed into bed with her.  She kissed him.  They 
rolled around a little, kissing, her arms holding him tight against her skin.  His fingers 
were inside her.  She let herself go.  This was escape.  He again spoiled it by saying 
something.  She blocked it out.  He began to blindly rummage through the nightstand with his 
right arm, hand flailing madly at all within its grasp.  Stiff plastic square, soft in the 
middle.  He spoke again.  She shouted internally for him to "Shut up!"  He slid off her and 
opened the wrapper.  His thick fingers fought heroically with the latex.  She welcomed him on 
top of her.  With little initial success, she had no choice but to reach down and guide 
him herself.  His entrance was greeted with apathy.  He apparently set out to make it the 
fastest orgasm of his life.  The thought of being with such a sexy girl, he simply 
couldn't control himself.  She held tight while it lasted, using the same amount of strength 
to clamp her eyes shut as she did to force him against her body.  When it was over, he rolled 
over and let out a tremendous sigh.  He began talking immediately.  Her eyes were now open 
and searching for a way through the ceiling.  She could only pick out occasional words such 
as "hot," "so good," and "thank you."  It didn't matter.  Nothing mattered.  

He had just finished carefully placing the soiled condom on top of its wrapper on the nightstand
when he turned to find her sitting up at the edge of the bed.  Her panties were already on,
and she was adjusting her bra.    

"Where you going?"

The young woman stood up, her back still towards him, and pulled her jeans on with a slight
hop.  

"What's wrong?  Did I do something wrong?"  

She remained silent, finishing the last few buttons on her shirt and slipping her feet into her
shoes without any difficulty whatsoever.  Things went so smoothly that the placement of the left
foot in her left shoe also served as her first step from the room.

"So that's it?"  He was sitting up yet too uncertain to move any farther.  "Can I call you?"

She grabbed her coat from the living room and made sure not to slam the front door out of
respect for the hour.  She paused just inside the front door of the apartment building.  She could
see through the frosted window it had started snowing much harder.  She knelt down and tied the
laces of her shoes, first the left then the right.  She stood up and buttoned her coat.  The
doorknob was cold.  She wished she had brought gloves.

The parking lot was glazed in white crystal.  Swirling wind and snow battered her pretty 
head.  She tucked her chin to her chest, folded her arms around herself, and made a hasty 
dash to her car.  She almost slipped upon arrival but was able to catch herself before any 
real threat of falling.  She found her keys in her coat pocket and clumsily unlocked the 
door.  Her hands were already cold.  She turned the key and quickly clicked on the heater.  
It would take a few minutes to warm up.  All the windows were blanketed.  She huddled in 
the darkness, holding herself, hands tucked under arms for warmth, and felt incredibly alone.  
The sight of her own frosty breath broke the spell.  She didn't have a snow brush with her, 
so the back and side windows were cleared with a coat sleeve.  The windshield wipers along 
with the combination of the heater and a generous amount of wiper fluid made it possible for 
her to see well enough to manage the parking lot.  The snow was unrelenting.  She had to 
squint her way home, driving far below her normal rate of travel.

There were no lights on in her house.  Her mother and sister were both asleep.  Her mother used
to always leave one of the lamps on in the living room for her but that tradition had long since
ended.  The walk down the hall to her bedroom was taken with a cautious step as to avoid areas
of the floor that would betray her homecoming.  Once inside the security of her locked bedroom,
the young woman tossed aside her wet coat, caring little for where it landed, and went directly to
her bed.  The lights were off.  The blinds were drawn.  She curled up in a ball and tried 
to forget.  But she couldn't.  She was back in her house.  Back in her room.  Back in her 
life.  The flashing red light from her answering machine, made all the more daring due to 
the darkness, brought her to her feet once more.  She switched on the desk lamp.  The 
light exposed a very girly room of pinks and whites, lace and frills.  The desk itself 
carried school books and illusions.  A push of a button made the flashing stop.  There were 
three messages from boys she had met at the club.  She erased them all.                    

Getting undressed for the second time in little over an hour, she peeled off her clothes and let
them fall where they may.  She pulled on an oversized t-shirt that acted as a dressing gown and
stood motionless in front of the still-opened dresser drawer.  She knew it was in there, carefully
tucked behind her panties and bras, hidden from all but her.  She knew it was there.  No one had
ever written her such a letter before or since.  It contained the sort of lovely, thoughtful words
most women live a lifetime without hearing.  And there they were on two pieces of delicately
folded paper addressed to her.  She was the one that inspired those words.  But she couldn't read
them now.  Not tonight.  She carefully closed the drawer as if not to disturb its contents and
returned to darkness.  Another day was waiting.          



CHAPTER FOUR (Drunk)  


"I am ripped."

"What a surprise."

"Dude, I am so fucked up.  Shit's spinnin' on me."

"Just try and focus on one thing.  Look at the clock."

"I can't.  The numbers are floating."

"Well, don't look at the road."

"I looked at the road."

"Just don't throw up in here.  We're almost there."

"How did he do it?"

"What?"

"How did he stay true to her all those years?  How did he make it through all those days and
nights without knowing?"

"Do you know what he's talking about?"

"Fuck no.  He's crushed."

"I don't know why I'm so fucked up.  I only did like twelve shots."

"Yeah, how could twelve shots of house vodka make someone sick?"

Gas station.  Get out here and walk.  "Just drop me off here."

"Why?"

"I don't think I'm gonna make it the whole way around.  There's a shortcut through those weeds."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."  Where's the door handle?  Is that the lock?  No, that's the window.  There's the handle. 
Damn, this fuckin' door's heavy.  "All right, fellas.  Thanks."  

"Watch yourself."

"You know I will, Jer.  Always do.  Later, Geffel."   Leave the door open.  Geffel will get in
front.  Fuckin' vodka.  Almost stepped in that puddle.  Coyle's gas station.  I used to love
this place when I was little.  Buy cans of pop.  That was huge, going down the path to buy cans
of pop.  Chocolate Soldiers.  Only place I ever saw Chocolate Soldiers was at Coyle's gas station. 
Toy soldier on the can.  Was it just chocolate milk?  It couldn't have just been chocolate milk. 
Had to be something else.  Don't remember if it was carbonated.  That hose if you jumped on
rang a bell.  That was cool.  Wonder if they still have it.  Turning my head is not a good idea. 
Just focus straight ahead.  Find the entrance to the path.  Gotta find the entrance to the path. 
Fuckin' weeds.  At least in winter they'll all die.  It would be easy to find the path in 
winter.  It should be right here.  Who the fuck would move the entrance to the god damn 
path?  What kind of asshole would move the entrance to the god damn path?  Oh.  Christ, are 
those thorn bushes?  Just keep goin'.  Don't stop.  Probably be covered in ticks by the time I 
get through this mess.  Fuckin' Lyme Disease.  Deer ticks.  No deer around here.  Almost 
there.  Shit.  That hurt.  Should be a rock here shortly.  There.  Didn't trip.  I'm not 
that drunk.  Almost there.  Since when are there so many damn thorns?  My pants are gonna 
be shredded.  Fuck my pants and fuck the thorns.  Almost out.  Just get up the slope.  
Muddy.  Great, now I'm gonna have mud on my hands.  Finally.  That wasn't so bad.  Better 
than driving all the way around the block.  It's nice out.  Maybe I'll stay out here a 
minute.  It's so quiet.  I like it out here in back.  They really made it nice.  That 
fountain's cool.  Flowers.  I'll just sit a minute.  Bench is hard.  Fuck my head.  Oh fuck. 
 Might as well get it over with.  Hands and knees will make less splash.  It shouldn't 
hurt the flowers much.  Aim for the bark.  That wasn't bad.  Got more.  I'm so good at this 
now.  It's nothing.  I can go again.  Fuckin' dry heaves.  Oh shit, their window's open.  
It's okay, they're sound sleepers.  Don't sweat it.  Just get inside.  Don't want to wake them 
up.  Gotta get up.  Gotta get up.  That was easy.  Now walk.  Watch out for that drainage thing 
at the corner of the house.  I've never tripped on it.  Never.  Where the fuck am I going?  
I think I just walked in a circle.  How come the ground is so crooked?  It's the 
driveway.  Slant's up.  I'm actually staggering like a drunk.  Must look like Otis.  Where you 
at, Barney Fife?  Better use the house as a guide.  The brick is gritty.  Rough.  Can feel 
it coming off on my hand.  Don't scrape.  Be careful.  Don't scrape.  In Pittsburgh that time 
I scraped my knuckle on that wall.  Took three weeks to heal.  Be careful.  Ow.  Fuck.  Has 
that tree always been there?  Stick to the sidewalk.  Watch out for the step.  Open the 
door.  What's the combination?  Oh, I know.  First try.  I'm not that drunk.  Close the 
door quiet.  Push the lock button.  Fuck wrong one.  The lock button is the bottom one.  Why 
can't I remember that?  Gotta piss.  Downstairs bathroom.  Quieter.  I can't believe I'm 
this fucked up.  Grab the doorway.  Shut the door.  Careful.  That light's bright.  Too 
bright.  Lift the lid.  Pants.  Boxers.  There.  Careful now.  That's better.  Flush.  I 
missed the handle.  How'd I miss the handle?  Got it.  Wash hands.  Cleanliness next to 
godliness.  Is that me?  Damn.  Barely recognize myself.  I think I need to sit down a 
minute.  Just follow the wall down.  Bathroom's so small.  I'll just close my eyes a second.  
No, that's even worse.  I'm gonna throw up again.  Get to the toilet.  Since when did crawling 
get so hard?  Fuck, I think some got on my face.  That's four.  Five.  Six.  Seven.  Seven's 
not bad.  What is that?  It's red.  What did I eat today?  Just some crackers I think.  
Crackers aren't red.  Can't be blood.  I'm probably just seein' things.  What does it mean if 
you throw up blood?  Can't be good.  Probably just seein' things.  Flush the toilet again.  
Gotta get to my feet.  Am I standing yet?  Don't think so.  C'mon, stand up.  Use the towel 
rack and sink.  Let's go, pull yourself up.  On three.  One.  Two.  What was I trying to do?  
Oh yeah.  Let's go.  Wash my mouth out.  Dixie cups.  I hate the South.  Fuck Dixie.  Better 
rinse some more.  Get some water on my face.  That feels pretty good.  At least I can feel 
it.  I'm so tired.  Need to lie down.  Gotta get up to my room.  Fuck.  Can't sleep here.  
I can sleep all I want once I get to my room.  Turn off the light.  Stairs. Only five.  Crawl 
up 'em.  Just go.  Don't stop now.  Can't stop now.  More stairs.  Use the railing.  They left 
the light on for me.  Gotta turn it off.  Middle switch.  Damn.  Middle switch, jackass.  
Be quiet.  Don't want to wake them.  Shhhhh.  Quiet.  Close door.  Get shoes off.  Shirt.  
Pants.  I'm not hanging 'em up, fuck it.  Feels so good to lie down.  Fuck!  Forgot the 
towel.  Can I reach it from here?  God damn it.  Just gotta get up one more time then I can 
sleep.  Gotta get the towel.  Second drawer.  I'll close it in the morning.  Spread it on 
the floor.  Now I'm good.  Fuck it feels good to lie down.  Can't believe vodka got me so 
fucked up.  Better lie on my stomach.  Didn't John Wayne's son die from throwing up in his 
sleep?  Dad told me that.  Was it John Wayne's son?  Who cares?  Just lie on my stomach.  
Better go again.  Eight.  Good thing I got the towel.  That's such a good idea.  I'm so 
fuckin' smart.  Nine.  Dry heaves suck.  I'm so tired.  Stay on my stomach.  Don't turn 
over.  Maybe I'll take a break from drinking for a while.  I won't drink for at least a week.  
It might be good to take a break.  I have to be better for her.  I'll see her again.  I have to 
be better for her.  I know I'll see her again.  Maybe start lifting.  Get healthy.  I need to 
be better for her.  Stronger.  I'm done with alcohol.  This is it.  Last time.  Honest.  I'll 
be better for her.  Go to sleep.  Worry about it tomorrow.  I'll worry tomorrow.  I'll worry...   



CHAPTER FIVE (Claire and Michael meet at cabin)

It was unseasonably warm for the last week of December.  The sun was shining, it seemed
Spring had sprung.  God bless the greenhouse effect.  The day promised to be a good one.  Alex
was coming to pick her up any minute to whisk her off to Jim's cabin for a day of wine, whiskey,
and song.  Claire had never been to the cabin, but she had heard stories.  Even if it didn't 
live up to expectations, it would still be a welcome relief from her tortuous existence as 
the Style reporter for the Hadleyville Picayune. Yeah, as if Hadleyville had style.  She'd had 
to work the previous nine days, including Christmas.  Today was going to be her day.  She 
wanted to make the most of it.  Where was he?  She heard a knock.  Right on time.

The cabin was located in Burnside, PA.  The directions, left in Claire's charge, said the journey
would take an hour and forty-five minutes.  But Alex assured her it was more like an hour and
fifteen at the most.  He also assured her that it really wasn't a cabin.  While the surroundings
were definitely rural, it wasn't like they'd be totally removed from civilization.  It was only a
cabin in the most elastic sense of the term.  It was more like a really small house, 
with electricity and indoor plumbing and everything.  So that was a comfort.  But Claire 
didn't care.  As long as it didn't in any way resemble the offices of the Picayune, she'd 
be happy.  

The drive was a pleasant one.  The holiday traffic was surprisingly light.  They passed through
strange towns like Clymer, Arcadia, and Glen Campbell.  Yes, Glen Campbell.  Claire was
thankful that the Picayune's circulation wasn't dependent on the Glen Campbell residents.  After
all, how many articles could she possibly be expected to write proclaiming the delicate
sophistication of rhinestone-studded belt buckles and sideburns?  The thought sent shivers. 

Alex and Claire reached Burnside an hour and ten minutes after they had started.  It wasn't long
before they were driving over the grassy, gravel trail that took them to their destination's
doorstep.  Alex was right, it didn't much resemble a cabin.  It was a small rectangular house with
white siding, a flat roof, and a front porch made of uneven, weathered railroad ties that ran its
length.  They pulled into the last remaining spot in front of the porch.  Three cars were already
there.  Claire gave the surroundings a quick survey.  Even though there was a somewhat
residential area no more than fifty yards away, the cabin still held a sense of seclusion.  
Its right side was flanked by a row of enormous pine trees that veiled it from its 
immediate neighbors.  In all other directions there was nothing but grass and trees and 
Mother Nature.  There wasn't a computer or assistant editor in sight.  For that, Claire 
was thankful.  She demonstrated her sincere appreciation by taking in a mighty breath of the 
crisp mountain air.  Her coughing brought Jim out to welcome them.

"Are you okay?" asked Jim.  The cabin's screen door barked displeasure as he allowed it to slam
behind him.  

"Yeah," gasped Claire, "I'm fine."  She suffered the needless embarrassment of one final
involuntary convulsion.  "I think.  I guess I'm not used to this fresh air stuff."

"It does take some getting used to," said Jim.  "You have any trouble finding the place?"

"No, I pretty much remembered the way from last time," said Alex.  "When did you guys get up
here?"

"I think about nine last night."

"It seems pretty quiet."

Jim smiled.  "Yeah, we've just been taking it easy all morning.  Trying to recover.  I think we
might fire up the grill in a couple minutes.  Did you eat lunch yet?"

"No, not yet."

"Hamburgers and hot dogs fine?"

"Sure." 

"And look," cut Claire, proudly displaying a bottle and a large foil-covered dish.  "I brought
cookies and wine!"

"Nice.  But you might want to keep the wine away from Malloy," grinned Jim.

"Who?"

"Mary Peterson's little brother," explained Alex.

"Oh, he's here!"  Claire knew he would be but tried to sound surprised anyway.  She had wanted
to meet Mary's brother for a while now.  Today was going to be her day.  "Doesn't he like
wine?"

"Oh, he likes the wine," laughed Jim, accepting the plate of cookies.  "C'mon, I'll 
introduce ya."  He turned and entered the cabin, holding the door open for the two 
newcomers.  Claire stayed back and let Alex go in first.  "Look who's here everybody!  Alex 
and Claire!"

"Hey, Alex and Claire!" called a mocking medley of voices.  Once inside, the first thing Claire
noticed was a table directly to her left that boasted a dizzying array of empty beer 
bottles.  Beck's and Rolling Rock seemed to be the specialties of the house.  There were 
also three empty bottles of wine towering above the rest.  It appeared Mary's little 
brother really did like the wine.  The cabin's floor plan was rather elementary.  The 
structure itself was rectangular.  The main room where they were standing cut the rectangle 
in half lengthwise.  There were four doors on the opposite wall.  She guessed three were 
bedrooms and the fourth, to the far left, was the bathroom.  Its door was marked by a "rest 
room" sign that had obviously been clipped from a less than vigilant restaurant.  The main 
room was decorated in oranges and browns and reds and purple and... well, it wasn't 
exactly following any specific color scheme.  Apparently whatever couldn't be used at 
Jim's parents' house found its way to the cabin.  The walls were covered in hunting 
paraphernalia and trophies.  There were a few deer heads of differing sizes mounted high on 
the far wall, orange hunting coats could be seen sticking out from one of the bedroom 
doorways, every flat surface was cluttered with something either having to do with hunting 
or alcohol.  To her left was the kitchen area.  She saw a sink, a stove, and, oddly enough, 
two refrigerators.  A long kitchen table occupied most of the area.  The large collection 
of liquor bottles acted as a centerpiece.  There was also a girl Claire had never seen 
before stirring a cup of coffee.  Matthew and Zippy were sitting on the floor in the middle of 
the room playing a hockey video game of some sort.  They each looked up long enough to smile 
hey and went right back to their game.  Claire stepped into the room a bit further so she 
could see around the door, revealing another stranger sitting in a chair reading a book 
while wearing headphones and yet another unknown face lying on one of two couches eating a 
snow cone.  

Alex knew everybody and was already joking with the crowd as he poured himself a Coke. 
Alex's initial cheer of "Malloy!" was answered by the young man on the couch.  So that was
Mary's brother.  Before she could get a good look Jim took the bottle of wine to place it along
with the cookies on the kitchen table and turned to make introductions.  Ladies first.

"Claire Hartley, this is Kelly Borden."  Smiles were exchanged.  "She's an old friend of mine
from high school.  She's just home for Christmas.  She goes to school at Columbia."

"Wow," said Claire automatically. 

"It's really not that impressive, I assure you," said Kelly, still smiling.  

Kelly was attractive; her glasses and long straight black hair, parted in the middle, only 
added to the intelligent aura about her.  Claire was also glad to see that she wouldn't be 
the only girl there.  "What are you majoring in?"

"Creative writing."

"That's cool!  So you want to be like a novelist?"

"Yeah, hopefully.  At least I'm trying to be.  But who isn't?"

"You can talk about all that later," interrupted Jim, "let's keep the show moving, I'm hungry. 
You know Matt and Zip..."

"Yeah, we go way back," shot Matt without taking his eyes off the TV screen.  

"Over there is Jerry Fairish."  Jim was pointing to the guy in the chair.  Even though he was
sitting Claire could tell Jerry was tall.  He was a big guy.  The cover of the book he was
reading proclaimed itself to be a classic movie companion by the folks at American Movie
Classics.  Jerry noticed the attention that was focusing on him long enough to look up from the
book and remove the headphones.  

"Are you talking about me?" 

"Yeah.  This is Claire."  Yet more awkward hellos.  "I was just telling her you're an unemployed
bastard that does nothing but smoke and drink all day."

"Cool."  He replaced the headphones and went back to reading his book.  

"And last but not least..." Jim motioned to snow cone boy.  "I give you Mary's brother Michael. 
Malloy, this is Claire."

"Hey."  He coupled the greeting with a shy smile and a gentle wave of his right hand.  "I'm eating
a snow cone."

"I see that," beamed Claire.  

"Red's my favorite."

Claire simply smiled and nodded her head in agreement.  Although he was covered up to his
chest with blankets, she could tell he was somewhat frail.  His hair was short and tousled,
apparently he hadn't been awake long.  His cheeks were sunken.  He hadn't shaved for at least a
day.  And his face appeared to be all mouth and eyes, big, soft green eyes that seemed to betray
the lighthearted smirk of his lips.  If it wasn't for that reassuring smile, Claire would 
have sworn he was in some sort of physical pain.  His arms were the only other parts of his 
body exposed.  He was wearing a green flannel shirt, but its cuffs weren't buttoned and the 
worn sleeves peeled from his forearms each time he lifted the snow cone to his mouth.  
The prominent bones of his wrists exaggerated the thinness of his hands and forced a 
one-word description to her brain: gaunt.    

"I'm gonna go start the food," announced Jim.  "Are we gonna eat outside?"

"Might as well," said Alex.  "Take advantage while we can."

"Matt, you gonna handle the fire?" asked Jim.

Without saying a word, Matthew dropped his controller and bolted to the kitchen cabinet,
snatched a bottle of lighter fluid, a box of matches, and was out the door.  Jim, Alex, and Kelly
all followed, each carrying some necessity in meal preparation.  Claire was still so busy
contemplating Michael's frailty that she almost didn't realize he was talking to her.     
              
"So you work with my sister, huh?"

"Yeah, her desk is right across from mine."

"How unfortunate."  

"For me or for her?" smiled Claire.  

His eyes sparkled, but his only response was to take more snow from his cone.

"Your sister's about the only person I like talking to at work."  

"She's actually told me a lot about you.  She's wanted me to meet you for a long time."

"Really?"

"Yeah.  She's always spoken very highly of you."  

"Well, I think very highly of her.  I feel so bad for her, though.  She has to deal with so many
idiots calling her about the TV guide all day.  I don't know how she puts up with it."

"Such is the burden of a television editor.  I'm sorry," Michael sat up and pulled his legs in to
open up the third of the three-cushion couch, "you wanna sit down?"

Claire accepted the invitation.  "Thanks.  Are you just getting up?"

"Not really.  I've been up for a while.  I'm just feeling a little under the weather this morning."

Claire did a double take.  "Nothing contagious I hope."

"No," smiled Michael.  "It's one of those temporary illnesses."

"Oh, I see.  I hear snow cones are good for that."

"Yeah, that's what I'm hoping."  Zippy, now playing against the computer, and Jerry, still
listening to music and reading, remained oblivious to the world.  "My sister tells me you two are
always lending each other books."

"Yeah, we seem to share similar tastes.  She told me you're a writer."

"Supposedly."

"What does that mean?"

"My book hasn't been published yet.  If it ever gets published then I guess I'll be a writer.  I don't
know."

"So you've written a book?"

"Yeah."

"What's it about?"  

"Love, life, depression..."

"That's pretty much everything."

"Yeah," Michael smiled.  "Just about."

"So we've got two writers here then."

"You mean Kelly?"

"Yeah."

"She counts.  I'm not sure I do, though."

"Has she had a book published?"

"No, not yet.  She's still working on her first one."

"Then why does she count and you don't?"

"I seldom count."

With that the screen door opened.  Only a voice entered.  "Claire."  It was Alex.

"Yeah?" asked Claire, still looking intently at Michael.

"C'mere a sec."

"Okay, I'll be right out."  The door closed.  Alex was gone. 

Claire got to her feet.  "We're not done talking.  I want to get you and Kelly together and talk
books later."

"Okay."

Consent was nowhere near enthusiasm.  He was back to his snow cone, trying to find a way to
eat the red side without taking in too much of the blue.  Claire wanted to say something else but
couldn't think of anything.  She went outside before he shared in the distress.

Jerry watched her exit.  Once she was gone he removed his headphones and whispered across to
his sickly pal, "So that's Claire?"

"Yep," replied Michael, mouth full of ice.

"She's pretty damn cute."

Michael didn't answer.  He never even looked up.  Jerry put back on his headphones.  Michael
kept crunching away.  There was nothing left but blue.

It wasn't long before word was sent that the food was ready.  Jerry and Zippy grabbed some beers
and headed out.  Before he left, Jerry stopped to ask Michael if he wanted anything.

"No thanks, I'll drink my lunch in a bit."

Michael ended up having the cabin to himself for about the next half hour.  Jerry was the first to
return.  When he entered the cabin he found Michael sitting at the kitchen table.  Combed,
shaved, scrubbed; he looked like a new man.  Jerry may not have recognized him at all if it
wasn't for the glass of gin nestled in his right hand.  Or maybe it was water?  No, he looked
happy.  It had to be gin.  

"You should have seen Matthew out there," said Jerry, placing the unfinished end of a hot dog in
his mouth long enough to pop open a cold beer.  He sat down at the head of the table.  "He was
just walking around looking at the ground.  So I go to Zip, 'Zip, what's Matt doin'?' and Zip says
'He's lookin' for toads.'  So I said 'What?'  And Zip goes 'No, I'm serious.'  Then he yells up to
him, 'Matt, what are you doin'?'  And Matt says, 'Lookin' for toads.'  It was hilarious."

"Matt likes toads," stated Michael matter-of-factly.

"Why?"

"He found one up here once so now every time we come up he looks for one."

"But it's December.  Are toads even out?"

"It doesn't hurt to look," said Michael.  He sipped his drink.  A fresh grin creased his face.  "It
never hurts to look."

Laughter heralded the arrival of the others.  Claire was the first one through the door.  She
stopped dead.  "You're up!" 

"Yeah," smiled Michael.  "I'm feeling better."

"That's good."  Their eye contact was accidentally broken by the passage of the others into the
room.  They practically had to shove her out of the way.  She felt silly for having stopped in the
doorway like that.  Thankfully no one seemed to notice her mistake.  She didn't dare look at him. 
Not yet anyway.  She watched intently as Jim tossed away paper plates and Kelly returned
condiment jars to their refrigerator shelves.  When she worked up enough courage to allow her
eyes to drift back to Michael, she found him staring not at her but at his glass of water.  He was
tilting it back and forth and watching the ice clank and clatter between his hands.  He pulled 
it to his mouth.  Water was healthy for you.  You're supposed to drink eight glasses a day.  

Soon everyone settled into a place at the table.  Jerry remained at the head.  To his left was, in
order, Claire, Alex, Kelly, and Jim.  To his right was Matthew, Michael, and Zippy.  The liquor
began to flow.  Jim and Kelly were still nursing beers; Zippy was drinking Mad Dog from the
bottle; Matt and Jerry were JB drinkin' buddies; Alex and Claire elected to go with the wine they
had brought.  Michael held with his glass of "water."

"I'm amazed you're even drinking today," remarked Jim in Malloy's direction, staring with
admiration towards his friend.  Claire started to doubt it was water.

"Yeah, what did happen last night?" asked Alex.

"Nothin', don't worry about it," offered Michael with embarrassment.

"No, c'mon, tell 'em about it!" laughed Jim.  "Malloy threw up like, what, twelve times?"

"There's a lady present," said Michael, motioning towards Claire. 

"I was here last night and it didn't stop you!" protested Kelly.

"What's your point?" smiled Michael.

"No, go ahead tell me.  I want to hear about it," assured Claire, flashing a devilish smile. 

"Well, I reckon I may have had a little too much to drink," relented Michael, eyes still on his
glass.  

Jim supplied the details.  "He did three bottles of wine, three different kinds of wine mind you,
in like an hour or so.  Then he did some shots of JB.  And the last I saw he was drinking a big
glass of gin and vermouth.  Is that what you got in there now?"

"Yeah."

Jim continued.  "So me and Matt are just sitting out on the front porch.  I was laying down in
that recliner thing and Matt was sitting on the one bench playing guitar.  We weren't botherin'
anybody.  So then all of a sudden Malloy comes staggering out of the cabin and just sits down on
the other bench."  Jim imitated Michael's posture from the night before, twisting in his chair so
he could place his elbows on his knees and let his head hang limp.  Michael kept looking down
at his glass.  A smile was starting to show.  "And he's like, 'I'm just gonna sit here a minute,
fellas'.  So Matt keeps playing his guitar and I'm just takin' it easy listening to it when, 
like, not even ten seconds pass and I hear 'blaaaahhhhhh'."  Jim mimics the retching 
movement.  "And it was awesome because Matt quit playing the guitar for a second when he 
heard Malloy throw up, but then he went right back to playing like nothin' happened.  And we 
heard Malloy throw up like one or two more times, then he just gets up and goes back inside!"

The room was laughing.  Claire looked at Michael.  His eyes met hers.  He just smiled and
shrugged his shoulders.  "I didn't feel that drunk until I laid down," he explained.

"At least you made it outside," said Jim.  

"Yeah, I went twice outside, four times in the bathroom, and two times in the bucket you gave
me," said Michael, feeling more comfortable about the story since Claire seemed to be laughing. 

"You threw up eight times?" asked Claire with more disbelief than disgust.  

"Yeah.  Last night.  I threw up four more times this morning.  I got up and drank a lot of water,
so that just all came up."

"Would it kill you to eat a sandwich?" cracked Jerry.

"I never like to eat when I drink.  It makes the vomiting process much easier," said Michael.  He
once again looked to Claire.  "I'm sorry, you don't need to hear this."

"No, I find it all quite interesting."

"Tell her about the towel," laughed Jim.

"That's okay, I think we've all had enough of this subject," countered Michael.  

"No, tell me!" pressed Claire, taking pleasure in his visible discomfort with the topic.  "What
towel?"

Michael melted beneath her attention.  "Well, when I'm at home and I'm really hammered I just
lie down in bed and put a towel on the floor.  So if I have to throw up I don't have to get out of
bed."

"That is so disgusting," said Jerry, sitting up in his chair and contorting his face to show
displeasure.

"It's really not that bad," defended Michael.  "I mean, it would be if I ate beforehand, but I never
do.  So all I'm throwing up is the alcohol.  By the time I wake up in the morning the towel's dry
and all I have to do is throw it in the wash.  It makes clean up a snap."  

Most of the table could do nothing but shake their heads and laugh.  "The thing I find most
remarkable," began Kelly," is that you've thrown up twelve times and you act like that's normal. 
Like nothing's wrong."

"What can I say?  It's an acquired skill."

"Much like dry-walling," added Jerry.

Michael smiled in agreement and pointed to him.  "Yes."  Matthew, Zip, and Jim got the joke.  

"I still think it's disgusting," continued Jerry.  "I never throw up."

"No, you just black out and don't remember anything," said Michael.

"I do not," fought Jerry.  "I remember everything."

"Like hell you do," said Matthew with a mischievous laugh.

"You remember us taking pictures of you last night with antlers on your head?" laughed Jim.

"What!" cried Jerry.  "What antlers?"

Matthew reached behind him and picked a pair of small antlers off the wall where they had been
hanging.  He held them up on his head, moved them around a bit, and said, "Moooooooo."

"I don't think deer moo," contradicted Michael.

"What do they do?" asked Matt, holding the antlers still.

"I'm not really sure."

Matthew thought about it for a moment.  He started to move the antlers again.  "Mooooooooo."

"You took pictures of me with antlers on my head?" asked Jerry.

"Yep," said Matthew.

Jerry looked about the table in disbelief.  Everyone assured him they had.  "Whatever!"  He
poured himself and Matthew two more shots of JB.  Matt dropped the antlers and downed his
shot. 

Claire reached across the table and pushed the antlers to Michael.  "C'mon, let me see you with
antlers."

"That's okay," smiled Michael.  "I don't do prop comedy."  He did, however, do a shot of straight
gin.  

A few moments and several shots later, the conversation slowly started to turn literary.  "Did you
tell Kelly you got an agent?" directed Jim to Michael.  

"No, he didn't tell me," jumped Kelly.  

"Yeah, I guess I forgot," said Michael as he downed some more gin.  "I just signed the contract
two weeks ago."

"Look at you!" said Kelly with genuine admiration.  "Who is it?"

"Some place called Whittendale and Associates.  My agent's name is Eleanor Gould."  He tipped
his shot glass high until the final drop found his mouth and then added, with a derisive tone,
"She's very good."

"Really?" asked Jim.

"Oh, I don't know.  They had nice stationary so I gave 'em a whirl."

"Where are they from?" asked Kelly.

"Someplace in New York."  

"Did you find them in one of those books I told you about?" asked Kelly, hoping that she was at
least of some assistance to the cause.

"Yeah, I think so," considered Michael.  "Either that book or one of the magazines you told me
about.  I signed for a year.  I figure it'll give me a break from worrying about it.  Now I 
can focus on my second book and hopefully get that done by the time the contract runs out."

"How long did it take you to write the first one?" asked Alex.

"I guess about, I don't know, maybe eight months.  But there was some stuff along the way that
hindered the process.  So I think I might be able to get the next one out in six if I really try."
 
"If you even get two books finished before I'm done with my first," warned Kelly with a
good-natured threat.  

"Why, are you having grief?" asked Michael.

"Pass the Scotch," requested Kelly.  

"That bad, huh?" laughed Claire, ushering the bottle of JB along. 

"Well, I've got the first fifty pages done," said Kelly, the musical sloshing of Scotch providing
accompaniment.  "But my professor wants one hundred pages by February."

"You can swing that," comforted Michael.

"How long is your book?" asked Claire. 

"It goes about 260."

"What's it about?" asked Alex.

Michael smiled.  "Well, as I always like to say..."

"Don't even," cautioned Jerry.

Michael proceeded undaunted.  "... it's a lot like '101 Dalmatians'... except with more dogs.'"

"That joke is terrible," shouted Jerry.  He sat up to command the room's attention and turned to
Claire.  "Now which is the better joke, that or... it's a lot like '101 Dalmatians' except..."  He
waved his hands in front of him. "...no dogs."

Claire thought for a moment.  "No dogs."

"See!" celebrated Jerry with a pump of his right fist.  

"'More dogs' is funnier," protested Michael.  

"No it's not!  Every time you tell that joke, no one laughs.  And they always agree with me that
'no dogs' is funnier."

"Well, you're all wrong," insisted Michael with a confident air.

"What makes yours funnier?" asked Claire.

Michael seemed to delight in having the opportunity to educate the masses.  He pushed aside his
shot glass and leaned forward.  "Granted, 'no dogs' is funny.  That's the way I first wrote it. 
But 'more dogs' is funnier.  Because what makes 'no dogs' funny?"  The question was clearly
rhetorical.  "It's funny that someone would make such a comparison when the only thing making
such a comparison valid is missing from the equation.  Of all the possible comparisons out there,
to choose '101 Dalmatians', a movie totally dependent on the presence of dogs, is funny. 
Right?"

"Exactly," confirmed Jerry.

"But see 'more dogs' is funnier.  It's comedy of excess.  You don't need 101 Dalmatians.  I mean,
that's a lot of dogs.  In fact, that's too many dogs to begin with.  They could have easily 
told that story with eighty-five dogs, eighty-six tops.  But they wanted to make the number 
so extravagant that no one could help but notice, so they went with 101.  Now, what makes my 
joke so funny is the thought that someone would spend eight months of their life writing a 
book that is exactly like '101 Dalmatians' with the only difference being that if you look 
really close you might be able to find a couple more dogs.  See what I'm saying?  There's 
already too many dogs.  So to commit your life to the sole purpose of adding only a few more 
dogs to the already needlessly large number is pointless.  Hence, the comedy."

Alex was laughing.  At least there was one convert.  Jerry had to force down a smile halfway
through the oration.  "Mine's still better" was all he said upon the conclusion of the defense's
case.  Michael only really cared what Claire thought.  Sensing he was anxious to hear her
findings, she hesitated a moment before passing judgement.  She looked at him, smiled, and
said, "No dogs."

"Aw, that hurts."  Michael did another shot.

"But you still never answered the question.  What's the book about?" persisted Claire.

"I don't know, I really don't like talking about it."

Jerry stepped in.  "It's a romantic comedy but with lots of depression.  It's kind of like a
combination of 'Romeo and Juliet', 'Annie Hall', and 'Taxi Driver.'"  

"Sounds interesting," was all Claire could muster.  "So I take it you've read it."

"Yeah."  Jerry swallowed another shot of Scotch.  "It's really good.  And I hate books.  Matt, you
read it, didn't ya?"

"Yep.  It's really good."

"They just say that because they have to," said Michael, contemplating another ounce of gin.  

"Would you let me read it?" asked Claire.  

"I don't know.  It's kind of personal," Michael smiled and looked down at his empty glass.  "I
don't know if I know you well enough yet."  He could feel her smiling at him.  It had been
months since he experienced the warmth of such a smile.  He liked it.  It reminded him of her.  

Before Claire could file petition, Jim directed their attention elsewhere.  "Check out Zip."

All eyes turned to see that Zippy - Mr. Professional-shirt-and-tie-wearin' businessman - had
fallen asleep where he sat, his chin supported by the palm of his right hand and his left still
clutching the bottle of Mad Dog.  A considerable amount of the fruity red nectar had been
drained.  Seeing how he was sitting next to him, Michael felt it was his duty to do the honors. 
He gave Zip's right arm a quick little shove, knocking it free and sending Zip's head crashing to
the table.  The blow to the skull seemed to awaken Zip from the cheap wine-induced slumber.  

"What up, Zip?" 

"Nothin', Jer.  Nothin' at all," was Zip's drowsy, heavy-lidded reply.  

"C'mon, Zip, let's go play some hockey, buddy," said Jerry, standing from the table. 

"Okay, Jer."  Zip pushed to his feet.  He steadied himself on the back of Michael's chair for a
second.  "I'm gonna kick your punk ass."

"Whatever.  Let's go, chimp."

Once Zip and Jerry left the table, the discussion of books continued.  And continued.  And
continued.  Participants drifted in and out of the conversation, venturing outside or to the
living room area for prolonged periods of time before returning to the open confines of the
kitchen long enough to secure alcoholic refreshment.  The table did have two permanent
residents throughout: Michael and Claire.  Alex attempted to keep pace, waiting by Claire's side
for her slightest need, but even his devotion was rendered insignificant in light of the 
other two's natural rapport.  He eventually slipped away to the other side of the room.  
His departure wasn't noticed.  Michael and Claire were blind to the movements of the 
others, completely absorbed in what masqueraded as intellectual pursuit.  While they tried to 
lose themselves in topics such as the significance of Joyce's "Ulysses" or the courage 
of Faulkner's narrative in "The Sound and the Fury", it was painfully obvious to everyone 
else present that their discourse was nothing more than a pitiful attempt at a mating 
ritual.  They in turn argued and blushed and fawned and lusted, searching always for an 
excuse to reach across the table and make physical contact, whether to punctuate a point, 
like Michael, or to offer playful reprimand for a sarcastic barb, like Claire.  The display 
caused one party member to remark under her breath, when she was far from earshot, "Why don't 
they just fuck and get it over with?"

"He was not gay!" exclaimed Claire in the heat of battle.

"Yes, he was," beat Michael.

"Guys don't notice stuff like the pearls and the type of jam she used on her toast unless 
they're in love."

"I'm not saying he wasn't in love with Holly, he loved her very much.  But he didn't love her as a
man loves a woman.  He loved her as a gay man loves a woman."

"No, no, no," muttered Claire in frustration as she shook her head.

"Yes, yes, yes," teased Michael.  "I read it a couple months ago so I can't remember everything,
but there are little clues throughout the entire book that lets you know the guy's guy.  Like, why
do you think he left home?  And what about the scene where she gives him a bath!"

"What about it?"

"You don't just let a girl give you a bath and not do anything about it."

"He's just shy."

"If he was shy, he never would have gotten naked in front of her.  The guy's gay."

Claire contemplated this most recent volley.  "I'm losing this argument, aren't I?"  Michael
nodded in silent agreement.  Claire smiled the smile of one knowing that the cause is hopeless
without admitting total defeat.  "I don't know if I like this.  I'm used to getting my way." 

"Then it's about time that changed."

"Maybe I'll read it again.  Let's both read it."

"Why should I have to read it again?  I understood it the first time."  She reached to slap his
hand, but he pulled it away as if to cower from her touch, laughing in triumph.  "Have you ever
seen the movie version?"

"No!  I've always wanted to see it but never have."

"It's totally different.  It's a true romantic love story.  I guess Hollywood didn't want to waste
Audrey Hepburn in a story about a gay guy."

"Assuming, of course, he was gay in the first place, which he wasn't."

"Sure.  Anyway, you should see the movie.  I could loan it to ya.  I have it on tape."

"Yeah, that would be cool."

Michael hesitated.  He concerned himself with his still waiting shot of gin, perhaps drawing
strength from it, before speaking.  "You actually remind me a lot of Audrey."

"Really?" asked Claire, somewhat taken aback by the compliment.

"Yeah," said Michael without lifting his eyes.

"But she's beautiful."

Michael looked up and smiled.  No words were needed.  Both began to silently curse the
presence of the table between them.  

"You two still at it?" asked Jim as he made his way to the nearby cooler for another beer.

"Yeah," said Michael, holding Claire's gaze.  "It's nice to actually have a real conversation with
someone.  I don't exactly hang out with the Algonquin Round Table."

"I still don't know what that means," admitted Jim as he tossed the cap on the table.  

"It was a collection of writers that hung out at the Algonquin Hotel in New York during the 20s,"
provided Claire.  "They were known for their sharp wit."

Michael was shocked.  Adoration flowed unchecked.  "You're the first person to ever get that
reference!"    

"Oh boy, here we go again," moaned Jim as he walked away.

"Do you know who Dorothy Parker was?" asked Michael of Claire.

"She was a member of the Round Table, wasn't she?"

"She's my favorite writer.  Have you ever read any of her stuff?"

"No, I haven't.  What did she write?"

"Poetry and short stories.  She never did any novels.  But she's like my ideal woman."

"Really?" 

"Yeah, she's perfect.  She was beautiful, smart, sarcastic, depressed, bitter, and she drank 
like a champ."

"And that's your ideal woman?"

"Well, I don't know.  It doesn't look like you can drink much."

Claire's heart fluttered at the blatant flirtation.  She fought back the initial bashfulness 
to wage a new front.  "I can to drink!"

"Not really.  You've had what, two glasses of wine?"

"This is my third!" parried Claire, proudly displaying a full glass of mirth.  

"Oh, forgive me!" joked Michael, raising his hands in defense.  "But don't worry, I think it's
kinda cute that you get drunk so easily."

"I'm not drunk!" laughed Claire.  "You're the one who's been drinking gin all afternoon!  How
many shots have you had?"

"About thirteen or fourteen, I guess."

"You've done fourteen shots!"

"Yeah, so?"

"So I'd be dead.  How do you do it?"

"Practice, practice, practice."

"Isn't gin awful?"

"I like it."

"Let me smell."  In reaching for his glass she accidentally brushed against the bottle of gin with
her arm, but recovered to catch it before it could even spill a single drop.  The reflexive speed
was quite astonishing.  

"I don't think I could have caught that bottle if I was drunk," remarked Michael.

Claire looked him in the eyes and in her best I-told-you-so voice said, "Then that should prove
I'm not drunk."  

"Oh, so you'd prefer to be clumsy than drunk?"

"Yes."  She passed the gin under her nose.  "Oh god!  How do you drink this stuff?"  She took
another whiff.  "It smells like pine trees."   

"I know, isn't it great?"

She handed the glass back to him, holding onto it a little longer than necessary.  "Why don't you
just go outside and suck on a pine tree?"

"I would have had to if you wouldn't have caught the bottle."

"Then you should be thankful for my sobriety."

"Or that you've got good reflexes for a drunk."  

Claire laughed.  She knew she had him.  She pulled her hair back in both of her hands and held it
tight.  She tilted her head ever so slightly and did her best Audrey Hepburn imitation.  "Do I
look like Audrey, dah-ling?"

"Always."    

Suddenly, the world rushed in.  Jim, Kelly, Alex, and Matt were back in the kitchen.  They
carried their own conversation with them.  Michael and Claire fell hushed, exchanging glances
of tacit understanding among the commotion.  Claire sipped her wine. 

"Do you have anything that lights on fire?" asked Matthew of no one in particular.  "Gin will
light, won't it?  Hey..." 

"What?"  Michael had been distracted by Claire's lips.

"Think gin will light?"

"Yeah, it should," concurred Michael, volunteering his shot.

Matthew produced a lighter from his pocket.  He carefully tipped the glass a bit to allow the
alcohol to creep to the brim.  The flame struck its surface and gave birth to a faint blue blaze.  

"Did it light?" asked Claire, squinting her eyes for a better view.

"Yep," confirmed Matthew.  

"Turn the lights off," suggested Jim.  Matthew began to make his way to the switch by the front
door.  

"It's givin' off a lot of heat," said Michael.

"Let me feel," said Claire.  She reached her right hand forward.  Fearing she might get too close
in her drunken state and get burned, Michael met her hand with his left and held it in the air. 
"Be careful, it's really hot."  He began to raise the glass when the lights clicked off.  

A rich azure flame hovered in the darkness, dancing and spinning for all to enjoy.  "Cool," said
Claire.  As the others likewise commented on the show, she carefully slipped her hand from
Michael's grasp and reversed the situation so it was now her hand that was holding his.  "It feels
so warm."  The blackness hid that their hands were nowhere near the flame.  His touch was
exciting.  If only the lights would stay off forever.        

The room flashed around them.  Michael and Claire quickly let go of each other's hand, not
wanting to broadcast their feelings to the rest of the world - a world that, unbeknownst to them,
had already been witness to their shared affinity.  Michael veiled his nervousness by promptly
blowing out the flame and vanquishing the gin.  It was very warm.  So was he.  Claire sipped her
wine.  Neither one spoke until the others had drifted away again.  Claire's third glass of 
wine had come and gone.  She was midway through a fourth.  Michael's shot total was 
nearing twenty.  The alcohol was only affecting one of them.  They had been sitting motionless 
and simply staring at each other for what seemed an eternity when Claire leaned forward, 
both elbows on the table, and whispered "c'mere" while calling Michael on with her right 
index finger.  He mirrored her movement across the top of the table, stretching over his 
folded arms until their faces were only a few inches apart.  She wanted to kiss him.  He 
was hoping she'd kiss him.  

"I'm starting to feel sleepy," she whispered.  

"That's because you're drunk," answered Michael, in an equally soft whisper.       

"I'm not too drunk," she whispered back, almost as a suggestion.

Michael gently grasped her right hand in his.  "Why don't you go over and lie down on the couch
and rest a bit?"

"Maybe I'll do that."  She reluctantly let go of his hand as she stood up.  "But it's not 
because I'm drunk!"

"Of course not," smiled Michael.

"I'm just tired."  She gave him one final peek and then turned to make her way to the nearest
couch, stepping over a passed out Jerry along the way.  Zippy was sleeping in the chair, an empty
Mad Dog bottle clutched to his chest.  Jim, Kelly, and Matt were sitting on the bigger couch. 
Alex was alone on the smaller one.  They were watching something on TV.  It sounded like it
may have been the X-Files.  She wasn't sure.  

"Claire, are you drunk?" crowed Jim.

"Yes."  She tossed a thumb back in the direction of the kitchen.  "But don't tell him that."

"That's what you get for trying to out drink him."

"Who was trying?"  She fell into place on the smaller couch, nestling her head in the crook of the
armrest and stretching her legs across Alex's lap.  She closed her eyes and found sleep.

Claire was staring at an unfamiliar couch cushion when she woke up.  It took her a moment
before she remembered where she was.  The TV was still on.  She heard voices.  She rubbed her
eyes and went about the process of sitting up.  

"Hey, you're awake."

It was Alex.  Jim and Kelly were still on the other couch.  Zippy and Jerry were now sitting at
the kitchen table.  They were eating something.  She couldn't see Michael anywhere.  "What
time is it?"

"About nine," answered Jim.

Claire was trying her best to smooth out her hair.  Her eyes were still squinting.  The lights
seemed really, really bright.  "How long was I out?"

"Only about an hour and a half or so," related Alex.  "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, I'm fine.  I wasn't really drunk."  She studied the room once more.  "Where's Michael?"

"Him and Matt are sitting out by the fire," said Jim.  "We cooked up some more hot dogs. 
They're over on the table if you want any."    

"Are you hungry?"  asked Alex.  "Want me to go get you one?"

"No, that's okay."

"Hey, the drunk's up!" called Jerry from across the room. 

Claire was starting to regain her senses.  "Look who's talking!  You were passed out on the
floor!"

"I wasn't drunk," said Jerry, still chewing a bite of hot dog.  "I was merely practicing my
transcendental meditation.  I can understand how you might confuse that with drunkenness,
though.  It's a common mistake."

"Hey, Jer," hollered Jim.  "At anytime during your meditation do you remember us taking more
pictures of you with antlers on your head?"

Jerry stopped chewing.  "No you didn't."  Alex, Jim, and Kelly all just smiled.  "Fuck!  Leave me
alone, I'm trying to eat my hot dog."

"These hot dogs are awesome!" chirped Zippy.

"Damn right, chimp!" concurred Jerry.  They clinked their beers together in celebration of the
charred tubular meat they were ingesting.  

Jim looked to Claire.  "You should have seen Matt and Malloy cookin' 'em.  They were throwing
gin on the fire.  The flame would shoot like ten feet in the air.  They cooked the hell out 
of those things."

Claire needed a mirror.  She started off for the bathroom.  As she was squeezing behind his
chair, Jerry murmured under his breath "Drunk."  She gave him a slap upside the head and called
him a lush.  "Jim, Claire's picking on me!"  She stuck her tongue out at him as she closed the
bathroom door.  "Promises, promises." 

It was a few more minutes before Claire could slip her way outside.  Alex wanted to leave.  They
both had to work tomorrow.  She used it as an excuse to go say good-bye to Matthew and
Michael.  The air was very cold.  Now it definitely seemed like December.  She could hear
music.  Matt was playing the guitar.  She didn't recognize the melody.  The fire was a beacon in
the frigid, black night.  It cast an unearthly orange glow on the bodies of both men, 
spilling upon the grass and even finding its way to the front porch, highlighting the 
unevenness of its footing.  She successfully navigated the treachery of the porch and set 
forth towards her light.  He was sitting in the chair on the left.

"Hey," called Michael's voice as she approached.  

"Hey."  She was now close enough to make out both of them clearly in the glow.  She crossed
her arms in front of her and pulled her coat tight.  "It got really cold."

Michael stood up, offering her his lawn chair.  "Here, sit by the fire.  It's actually quite warm."

"No, that's okay," declined Claire demurely.  "Alex and I are gonna be leaving in a minute or
two."

"That's still no reason why you should be cold until you do."  He grabbed her by the shoulders
and guided her to the chair.  "Sit." 

She did as she was told.  

Matthew, knowing his role, helped things along.  "You can take my seat, Malloy.  I'm gonna go
get another beer.  You want anything?"

"No thanks."

He pointed to Claire.  "You want anything for the road?"  

"No thank you.  I've had enough for one day."

Matt made his exit.  When he was beyond Claire, he looked back and gave Michael a quick
salute for good luck.  Michael acknowledged his well wishes with a barely perceptible nod.  He'd
have to remember to buy Matt a drink sometime.  

"So you're takin' off, huh?"

"Yeah, Alex and I both have to work tomorrow."

"That's too bad."

"How long are you guys gonna stay?"

"We'll probably leave tomorrow afternoon."

They both took a breather.  It was going well so far.  The pitch outside the immediate throw of
the fire made it seem like they were the only two people in existence.  It was nice.  
The crackling and hiss of the flames covered for the awkward silence.

"It was really nice meeting you," risked Michael.

"Yeah, you too," replied Claire almost before he had finished the sentence.  "I can't wait to tell
Mary I finally met her little brother."  

Another break.  The fire was the only one talking.  But Claire felt adventurous.  Maybe it was
the lingering effect of the wine, or maybe she was spurred on my something more meaningful,
either way she felt very bold as she began to speak.  "You know, I'm off again Wednesday...  I
was thinking maybe we could get together and talk some more books or something..."

"What about Alex?"

"What about him?"

"So you two really aren't together at all?"

"No, we're just friends."

"Does he know that?"

"Yeah, of course.  So what do you say?"

Michael hesitated almost long enough for her to think she had made a mistake before he put her
concerns to rest.  "Okay, yeah, that sounds cool.  We can do something Wednesday if ya want."

"Cool."  

"How do you feel about the DMV?"

"What?"

"I have to get my new license picture sometime this week.  I was planning to go Wednesday.  I
mean, I could go some other day, but it would be cool if you came with me.  I hate doing that
sort of stuff by myself."

"You sure do know how to show a girl a good time."

"It's not that bad.  It's actually a pretty nice place.  I'll buy you lunch," enticed Michael.

"I was gonna make you buy me lunch anyway."

The cabin door screeched open.  Other voices joined the night.  Alex was ready to go.  Claire
gave a quick look over her shoulder and then handed Michael a card from her coat pocket. 
"Give me a call and we can finalize things."

"Okay."  It was her business card.  It brought back memories of when he handed a similar card to
another's shy, lovely hand.  He spoke quickly in an effort to dispatch the memory.  "I half-
expected it to say 'Claire Hartley, Traveling.'"  

"Yeah, maybe I should do that," laughed Claire, picking up on the 'Breakfast at Tiffany's'
reference.  She stood up.  "Well, I guess I better get going.  So you'll call me?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be waiting."  She spiraled away into the darkness.  Michael didn't follow.  He sat by 
the fire and studied the card in his hand.  His thoughts were elsewhere.  And they didn't 
leave her until he heard Alex yell a farewell to him from the porch.  He answered and waved.  
He put the card in his pocket and watched as their car drove off.  Someone was walking his way.  
  
"Huh?  How'd it go?" asked Jerry as he sat down in the chair recently occupied by Claire.  

"Good."

"Did you ask her out?"

"Actually, she sort of asked me out.  We're gonna go to lunch Wednesday."

"That's awesome.  Now see that is the girl for you, my friend.  That's the kind of girl you should
be with, smart, funny, hot... and frail.  She's almost as thin as you."

"I know, I do like the waifs," admitted Michael rather dejectedly.  "If I was making a list 
of what I was looking for in a girl, she's it.  Right down the line, she's it.  But I 
don't know..."

"What?"  Michael just looked at his friend.  It's a look Jerry had seen many times in the 
past.  In fact, he had seen it continually over the past six months.  He knew what it meant.  
"If you even say she isn't Mel..."  Michael gave it up with a lowering of his head.  "Would 
you forget about Mel!  She wasn't the right girl for you!  Let it go!  Listen, do you hear 
that?  It's Mel fuckin' thirty more guys!  Forget her!  There's not enough chlorine in the 
world!  You deserve more than that.  You deserve a nice girl.  Somebody who's not 
insane.  Somebody who will treat you right.  Trust me on this one, Claire's the girl for you."    

"I know this is gonna sound stupid, but I almost feel like I'm betraying my love for Mel by
agreeing to go out with Claire."

"Jesus Christ!" exploded Jerry.  "You think Mel gives a fuck what you do?  Do you think she's
moping around her house waiting for you to come back to her?  Fuck no!  She's out having fun,
and probably half the male population of Hadleyville."   

Michael sat up straight.  "Here's the thing.  My head is telling me that Claire is perfect for me,
but my heart still belongs to Mel.  And I know I could fall in love with Claire real easy if I
don't watch out.  And if I do, that's gonna have to be it for Mel.  Because it wouldn't be fair to
Claire to be with her yet still be thinking of Mel.  Yet if my love for Mel is true, then what the
hell am I doing messing around with Claire?  I love Melanie.  I know you think I should give up
on her, but did Gatsby give up on Daisy?"  

"Okay, I'm gonna need some help on that one."

Michael tried again.  "Did Mork give up on Mindy?"

"He would have if Mindy had fucked all of Ork."

"The bottom line is right now, at this point in time, I'm still in love with Melanie.  What if 
I start dating Claire and then run into Mel somewhere?  Because I tell you what..."      

"Let me ask you this," sliced Jerry, pointing his beer to gain attention.  "Do you like Claire?"

"Yeah," said Michael softly. 
     
"She's cool as hell, right?"

"Yeah."

"She's someone you feel comfortable with, right?"

"Yeah."

"Isn't she somebody you'd like to hang out with?"

"Yeah."

"Then just think of it like that.  Don't worry about anything else.  Just go hang out with her
Wednesday like you would with anyone else, have fun, and see what happens.  Don't make
anymore of it than that.  See what I'm sayin'?"

"Yeah."

"Cool.  Trust me on this one.  She's perfect."  He took a hit of his beer.  "There might be one
problem, though..."  Michael looked up.  "You're both so thin that if you ever had sex your
skinny little bodies rubbing together might start a fire.  So be careful."  Jerry got to his 
feet.  "It's fuckin' cold out here.  I'm goin' in.  You comin'?"

"In a minute."

"Well don't sit out here and get all depressed.  Because you're goin' out with that girl if I 
have to kick the shit out of ya."

Michael heard the front door close.  He was alone.  It was peaceful, quiet.  Only the fire 
dared to brave the darkness and serenity of the night.  He sat there in reflection, losing 
himself in the fitful movements of the flames and in the long dead promise of the past.  



CHAPTER SIX (Justine and Anthony)


"Car!"
  
The universal warning brought a momentary halt to the proceedings.  Both teams of combatants
drifted half-heartedly to the nearest curb.  Automobiles were the scourge of any decent
neighborhood football game.  But there was nothing that could be done.  No one's backyard was
big enough to accommodate their needs, and the nearest park was still at least three years and a
successful driver's test away.  It was the street and two-hand tag or nothing.  And they needed
something.  The new school year had begun.  One forgot the despair of 180-day prison sentence
when faced with a crucial third and goal.  Homework mattered not to the NFL stars of tomorrow. 
Cars did, though.  

Five of six watched with little interest as the aging grey Buick sedan passed between their ranks
and came to rest a few houses down.  The sixth noticed.  He'd seen the car, and the driver,
before.  He drifted back into the field of play with eyes set on the girl that caused the 
most recent in a long line of official timeouts.  She stepped from the car wearing an old pair 
of blue jeans and a charcoal cardigan that struck him as a bit unnecessary considering how 
much they had been sweating during the course of the game.  She began to make her way towards 
the house with her arms folded across her chest in an attempt to keep warm.  This was the 
fourth time he had seen her.  He'd definitely seen her look better, like that second time when 
she was just wearing shorts and a t-shirt.  It didn't matter.  He knew she was beautiful.  

"Hey, jagoff!" screamed a voice.

The noise snapped the sixth back to reality.  He knew it was meant for him.  He turned to see the
laughter and smirks of the others.