Saturday

"I have one short story that is a page and a half. It is absolutely perfect."

She said this to me at a universal table—the kind that serves as a gathering surface for smoking, beer-drinking visitors to a dark and dusty loft. A small laptop was open and off. Cigarettes rolled loose on its surface. Her eyes stared mine down and her oatmeal-colored coat snugged her slim frame like a bathrobe. It was 2 p.m.

"Mm," I nodded.

I wanted to like her. I want to like her.

Behind her, busy preparing to leave the house, is a young man with eyes like the sea who is silently humming around these two women. One was once his lover. The other is his lover now. A worn blue shirt hugs his chest and behind him is a bed with new pillows and sheets bought the day before at Century 21, the discount department store near the Terror Hole. The pillows are still tumescent.

"I don't know why I can't send it."

The woman at the table continues to talk. She has an indeterminate offer from a publisher, but no impetus to send her recent stories even though all it would require is a click of a mouse. A mountain trek of a click of a mouse.

"I have to go," I say.

His eyes meet my eyes and pull me from the room, into them. We gather our bags, coats, scarves and hats. We leave.

The woman remains at the table.