Peter's whole body vibrated as he paced around his cluttered house. Nothing made any sense. He sat down on a pile of newspapers on the couch, but the vibrations in his body wouldn't let him sit still, so he got up and went into his bedroom looking for something to do, but there was so much that needed doing in his bedroom that it was entirely too overwhelming, so he went into the kitchen and mindlessly pulled the brick of cheddar from the bag of groceries he'd gotten on his way home, senselessly pulled a hunk of cheese off, leaving a pebbled, irregularly concave edge, heedlessly plopped it into a bowl and thoughtlessly stuck it in the microwave. The energy in his body was trying valiantly to stop his mind from engaging in any activity that might lead to thinking about the last hour, so, while the cheese was melting, it had him open the refrigerator door, pull a hot dog from the open package and eat it.

The microwave dinged and he pulled the bowl of bubbling cheese out, pulled the jar of pickled pigs feet, which he didn't remember buying, from the bag, and brought the bowl, jar and a spoon into the living room and sat on the pile of newspapers on the couch. Cliche came into the room and gave him a "you quit your job, didn't you" look. Peter wondered how microwaved cat might taste. Dipped in cheese. And pigs feet. (Steve! Quoi? Non chat a micro-ondes! Je suis désolé.) The look was enough to engage Peter's mind and he thought, oh, God, I just quit my job, didn't I, which made his body vibration go into overdrive trying to shut his mind the fuck up so it could think. He dipped a pig knuckle in the melted cheese then sucked on it. Cliche went into the bed room to be disgusted all over the blanket. When Peter realized what he was eating, he dropped it unceremoniously back into the bowl, slumped heavily back, pressed his head into the couch cushion, closed his eyes tightly and put his hands over his ears. That didn't help so he opened his eyes and put his hands in his lap. The Charles Chip cans were still all over the floor and he eyed them numbly, thinking he could really use that three-legged buffalo nickel he'd given Matt for helping him and Lee. Lee. This was all Lee's fault.

He picked up the phone and called Lee at the diner.

Lee took the phone from Twain, who had entirely given up being annoyed at the amount of personal calls Lee was getting at the diner and was busily looking for something else about which to be annoyed.

"I quit my job," Peter said as soon as Lee answered.

"You what?"

"I... ," Peter said, his voice getting dangerously quivery. "Um... quit."

Lee couldn't sort out which of the many questions his mind was concocting to ask, so he asked them all and the resulting string of words was impossible for Peter to respond to. Peter's quiver was sinking quickly into sobs as his mind finally heard his mouth utter the words "I" and "quit" and Lee knew he wouldn't be able to take care of a blubbering gay man over the phone while he was supposed to be working. A blubbery blubbering gay man. That's mean, he thought. Then laughed. And Geoff hit Steve. And laughed.

"I'll be over after we close," he said.

"Okay," Peter whimpered.

"Will you be okay 'til then?"

"Yes," Peter wept.

"You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?"

"Like what?" Peter boo-hooed. "Quit my job?"

Lee apologized, reassured him he'd be over as soon as he was off and hung up. Twain hadn't found anything else, so he stood looming behind Lee with a freshly recharged look of annoyance. Lee understood the look perfectly.

The phone in the scene shop rang. Bear put the brush he was using to splatter paint onto a scene flat to give it the appearance of texture into the pail and picked up the receiver. Before he said hello, he noticed with some sadness that he had just smudged the receiver of the Trimline® with umber paint.

"Hello," he said.

The pounding precipitation on the roof of the building that was originally designed to be temporary was rebounding around the arrhythmic hammering sounds of volunteers inexpertly putting together scene flats for End of the World with Symposium to Follow made it hard to hear so he pressed the receiver into his head and put his fist in the other ear. Like Nixon.

"I'm sorry I couldn't hear you," he said loudly just as someone started the table saw.

"Vincent, it's Dee Dee."

"Oh," he said quietly.

"What?" Dee Dee asked and a coffee can full of nails fell, spilling sound all over the phone.

"Look, it's loud in here and I can't hear you," Bear shouted, hoping it didn't sound like he was shouting at her but shouting to her. "Can I call you tonight?"

"Let's meet," she said. "Tonight."

Bear didn't say anything because what was left of his hair was receding into his brain.

"What?" Dee Dee asked loudly. "Let's get together for dinner. Tonight. We need to get past the last time."

Bear was about to not say anything again, but was afraid she would think he'd said something and wanted whatever she thought he might have said be what he actually did say, so he spoke really quickly without thinking first.

"Okay. I'll call you as soon as I'm off," he bellowed just as the person who had spilled the nails started loudly sweeping them back into the coffee can.

Bear put the phone down slowly, dully picked up the brush and started splattering paint on the flat again. The flat that he was splattering looked odd, which was odd because it hadn't looked odd before the phone call and his practiced arm was splattering in exactly the same way it had been splattering paint on flats for years. He cocked his head to the side and watched the pigment fly off the bristles of the brush and land on the muslin in random mottled patterns with no sound, or with sound that was hidden under the sound of the rain and the hammering and saw and nails, which, he realized suddenly, he could barely hear under the sound of his sweatshirt moving against his arm and chest. He put the brush down and leaned back against the workbench. The air was cold but acrid with the burnt mucilage in the paint, the hot iron and burnt wood from the stove, the winter rain and the smell of sweat. His face tried to decide if it dared smile or not. It chose to get back to work.

The rain continued, turning the town gray. (Isn't it odd that it's raining in February? It's a soap opera, it can rain whenever it wants to. How about during the Ming Dynasty? Non.) The rain stopped and streaks of yellow sunlight poured onto the town like soft butterscotch. Birds chirped. Kids broke out in spontaneous games of baseball. A tree grew. (Happy? Si.) Then it started raining again like a dog peeing on a fire hydrant. As the day wore on, the rain turned to ice which bit the air with sharp teeth. The ice turned its head to the left and coughed. Like Nixon. Since putting down the phone, Peter hadn't moved from his dent on the couch. The earlier tactic of staying in manic motion to avoid dwelling on what he'd just done to his life had transformed utterly into one of complete, numb immobility made possible by the bitter cold just beyond the wall behind him.

The buzzing vibration remained in the tips of his fingers, though, an edge defining the rest of his deadened mind and body. Occasionally a stray thought would make it across the barrier and jolt him into momentary, fresh, heart-pounding anxiety. An image in excruciating detail of the look on Stella's face when she bolted from the room caused his neck to sweat. The thought that he hadn't finished the advertising plan for End of the World and that he hadn't yet organized the subscription drive for the summer season which needed to get started soon and Stella wouldn't know that it needed to get done and the directors and casts of those plays would be left with their pants around their ankles and no audience and what the hell do I care, I don't work there anymore, fuck does it ever end, made his bowels contract painfully. The impulse to go back on his hands and knees and beg for his job back even if it meant taking a substantial cut in pay and a promise of quiet acceptance of Stella's brutal laughter for at least the next twenty years made his neck contract and his bowels sweat. Each new mental perturbation flared momentarily, caused havoc on his constitution, was deemed too overwhelming by whatever mechanism evolution had equipped him with to deem such things in order to save him from extinction, and his body shut down again for another indeterminate period. The passage of time existed only as a vague concept edged in compressed carbon dioxide. A showtune erupted, but he didn't notice.

Because of the icy rain, there wasn't much business at the diner. The only patrons for dinner were Agnes, Kim and Ron, who were sitting at a booth having a small business meeting about the impending closing night, and a large man with a strange beard and flyaway hair at the counter eating flan. Matt was sitting behind the counter, leaning his elbows on it, wondering if he should just call his mom to come get him, when the phone rang. Twain answered it, listened for a moment, then handed it to Matt.

"Hello? Oh, hi, Mom, I was just gonna call you."

He listened for a moment, then said he'd check and put his hand on the receiver.

"Mr. Harris," he called back into the kitchen, "my mom is afraid of driving in the ice and wondered if you could give me a ride home."

"Um... ," Lee said. "Sure."

"Thanks."

He told his mother it was covered and hung up just as Lee remembered that he was supposed to close and asked if Matt minded waiting a couple of hours. Then he remembered that he was supposed to go to Peter's after he got off and came out front to call and let him know he'd be late. Twain had finally found something else about which to be annoyed and was about to say he'd take the kid, but Agnes was casually eavesdropping while daubing the fish and chips grease and malt vinegar from her lips with a napkin. (What kind, Geoff? What kind of what? Fish. Veal. That's not a fish. Then shut up.)

"There's no need to make him wait, Lee," she said. "When will you be off, Matt?"

"Um... ," Matt said looking tentatively at Twain. "Now, I guess."

"We'll be done in a few moments," she said. "We can take him."

"Are you sure?" Lee asked, holding the phone, poised to dial.

Twain went back to his paper.

"Of course," Agnes said. "Don't be silly. It's probably on our way, anyway. Where do you live, dear?"

"On Bell Road."

"Oh," she said and thought for a moment. "It's not that far out of the way. Ron, you don't mind a little detour, do you?"

"No, course not," he said. "It's cool. Kid needs a ride."

Lee thanked them and put the phone down, glad at not having to disappoint Peter. Twain didn't thank them, he was busy reading the police log. Someone had broken into a garage and stolen a Betamax machine and twenty-three tapes valued at over three hundred dollars and someone had been arrested for insurance fraud. Kim and Agnes finished up their meeting and Matt brought them their checks. It took several moments for everyone to bundle up in their winter coats, boots, scarves and mittens, then Kim went to her car and Agnes and Matt went to Agnes's late model Le Sabre. She had sent Ron out a few moments earlier to warm it up. It was tan, just like Agnes, and had big bumpers. Just like Agnes. There was slushy road crud behind the wheel wells on every other car in town but it didn't dare befoul Agnes Livingstone's. The inside of the car was also pristine. The seats were muted, colored cloth. There was a pine tree hanging from the rear view mirror. A real one. (No, there wasn't, Steve. A Douglas Fir? No. A conifer? No evergreens. A maple? No trees. An ermine? She would not use an ermine as an air freshener. I do.)

Agnes let Matt into the back seat. She and Ron sat in front. (I thought that was a stoat. No, stoats stink.) As Agnes pulled out, Matt leaned forward eagerly and rested his arms on the back of the front seat.

"Thanks again, Mrs. Livingstone," he said.

"It is my pleasure, dear," she said. "We can't have you sitting around waiting while the streets get icier, can we?"

"You still in high school, huh?" Ron said and Matt nodded. "That's cool."

"Yeah, I'm a junior. But I have a girlfriend."

"Wow," Ron said. "The steam from your breath is going all the way to the windshield."

"Wow," Matt said, and blew, trying to make the windshield fog. It did a little and both he and Ron laughed.

"Made you lightheaded, didn't it?" Ron said, and Matt laughed again. Thus the two young men had bonded.

"What do your folks do?" Agnes asked as she turned a corner.

"Dad's an alcoholic and mom's a hooker." (Steve!) "I mean dad's a carpenter. Mom's the alcoholic." (Damn it!) "Court reporter."

"And you?"

Matt shrugged.

"I'm the alcoholic," he said, and Steve laughed. Geoff didn't. "I go to high school."

"I know, dear. But after that. Have you ever thought about theater as a vocation or avocation?"

"No way," Matt said. "I mean... you know, it's cool that Mr. Harris does it. And you. But no."

He looked at Ron and mouthed "Avocation?" Ron shrugged.

"What are your plans, then?"

"After I graduate next year I'll probably go to the community college."

"I go there. It's cool, you'll like it," Ron said happily, pleased to take him under his wing. "Maybe I'll see you there. I could show you around."

Agnes smiled and patted Ron's knee. He didn't get the irony that that would mean he would be in his fifth year of a two year community college, poor dear. She wouldn't dissuade him of the thought. He did have a washboard stomach. And those tattoos. And a wonderful ability to do as he was told but look rebellious while he did it.

"Whadaya take?" Matt asked Ron as Agnes turned on to Bell Road.

"American lit. American history. College math," Ron answered. "Philosophy. Whitehead's cool. The whole candle thing. Don't get Buber, though. I - Thou. What's that?"

"Yeah," Matt said. "I know what you mean."

He didn't, of course, but Ron was cool and he liked having a new friend. One in college. One with a Smurf® tattoo on the back of his wrist where a watch should be. Ron nodded knowingly.

Matt told Agnes which house it was and she pulled to a stop, then waited until he got into his front door. He flashed the porch light to let her know he was okay. She thought that was charming. Then she looked at Ron and patted his knee again in an entirely different way. Ron agreed and they sped home as fast as a late model Le Sabre and icy roads would let them.

Bear called Dee Dee from the theater just before he went home and they decided they'd go somewhere in River Bend and that she'd meet him at his place. They agreed the evening would just be dinner and talk and that she wouldn't even take her coat off when she got there. He shaved around his bushy moustache but his cheeks and chin still looked like a three day growth. He dressed in nice clothes but his chest hair still poked through his shirt. When Dee Dee got there, his first instinct was to greet her with a big hug and kiss but held himself back with great effort and consternation. Dee Dee asked where they should go.

"I made reservations," Bear said sheepishly, keeping his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

He had thought surprising her with reservations would be a nice gesture, proof that he could be romantic and caring. He hoped he hadn't made a mistake, but it was too late to not say he'd done it.

"Where?" She asked skeptically.

She was sure that any reservation he would make would be at someplace she wouldn't really care to go. He didn't have the caring, romantic gene. If only he were gay, she thought. Her heart pounded when she saw the hair sticking out of his shirt, but she also noticed his hands clasped behind his back, which made her clutch her coat front to make sure it didn't open and reveal anything. Like a blouse. Or a collar bone. Or a doubloon. (Doubloon? I just like saying doubloon. Doubloon. Aren't they Spanish? Da.)

"Chaussettes de Beurre."

"Wow, French," she said, impressed, and clutched her doubloon even tighter.

"I've never been there," Bear said. "It's supposed to be the best place in town."

He looked around for his coat, then remembered it was on the bed. He'd have to run in, put it on and run out without thinking of sheets. She had somehow gotten enough into the room that he would have to go around her to get to the bedroom. He started to sidle by her. (Sidle? I just like saying it. Sidle. You're weird.)

"Am I dressed all right for that?" She asked as he sidled, trying to remember which dress she had on under the coat that was now showing signs of strain around the clutch of her fingers.

There was something about the thought of Vincent thinking to make a reservation at a nice restaurant that was making her back sweat. There was something charming about his being shy to tell her he'd done it that was making her neck sweat. There was something about that fringe of hair around his bald head that was making her bosom want to burst free.

"You look wonderful," he said weakly, imagining what she must look like under the coat, then shook his head to clear his mind of the thought of what she must look like under what was under the coat, and he ran into the bedroom to get his coat.

"Why didn't you take me there when we were married?" she asked when he got back.

He was now clutching his own coat front, which was good because it gave her respite from staring at his chest through his shirt, which, she realized, she had been doing since the moment he opened the door. She shook her head to clear the realization so she could breathe. It was getting hot in there.

"We lived in a different town, then," he said, hurt.

"They had other nice places," she said, finally feeling a little control over her stupid mind.

But he looked so cute when he was hurt.

They took her car, an Escort with a red interior and a blue/gray body, because the seats would be more comfortable, but he drove. There were cigarette burns everywhere even though she didn't smoke, and the cassette player didn't work. Neither did the radio. But the cigarette lighter did. It had once been a rental car and she was still making payments on it. Bear put it in D2 because Drive didn't work, and pulled out. It had all the power of a used rental Escort. All the trees they passed were coated in a shiny sheath of ice which glistened and pulled at the branches making them dip and sway. The power lines also had an irregular sheath and dipped dangerously but very prettily. The ice that covered everything picked up all available light; that from the moon; the cars going by; the houses and the streetlights, and processed it into thousands of points of eerie, twinkling brilliance. The weather was conspiring with both of their hearts and minds to be romantic. The cold beauty glimmering around them heated up the inside of the car. Bear wished it were a standard shift so he would have something to do with his hands, but busied himself squeezing the button on the side of the shift lever thing and picking at the rubber at its end with his fingernails. Dee Dee sat on her hands and concentrated on the fingernail marks he was making in her car.

They drove up to the valet kiosk and got out. Bear instinctively put a gallantly gentle hand on her back when she got near him, but when he felt her back stiffen, he stiffened and quickly put it in his coat pocket and clenched. The Maitre d' showed them to their seats and helped Dee Dee out of her coat before she sat. When Bear saw what she was wearing, he had to sit very fast and his face turned white, then red, then white again. He put his hands firmly in his lap, then realized he was still wearing his coat. He struggled out of it while still sitting because he was unable, or rather unwilling to stand, and let it drape unceremoniously over the back of his chair. He had to stand a little when the Maitre d' tried to get his coat in order to hang it up, but only went far enough so that the coat was released from under him. Dee Dee was wearing a simple black sweater and a single gold chain with a small blue shiny stone hanging from the end. The sweater wasn't particularly revealing, but it was fuzzy, and the chain and pendant draped perfectly down its front, gently describing the inside curve of her tits. (Geoff! Its all right, I'm gay. Oh. Okay, then. All right. Um... Doubloon.) Steve's pants tented.

When Lee knocked on Peter's door, it took several moments for Peter to pull all the disparate energies vying for his attention and distraction into some sort of focus, stand and answer it.

"You quit your job?" Lee greeted him. "You mean at the theater? I mean, I know, at the theater, it's the only job you have. Had. Are you serious? What were you thinking? When? Why? What did they do? What did you do? Today? Of course, today. What happened all of a sudden today? How long did you work there? What are they going to do without you? Well, who cares about that. What are you going to do? Did you think about it, first? Do you need any money or anything? What happened?"

"You asked me all that on the phone," Peter said.

"Yeah, but you didn't answer."

While Peter began relating the entire morning in odd and heightened detail, Lee took the bottle of Canadian he'd brought with him into the kitchen, found two relatively clean glasses, washed them, twice, and poured healthy shots into both of them. He handed one to Peter just as he'd gotten to the bit about seeing the board members in the office doorway. Peter accepted and drank it without question, then asked if whiskey was Lee's answer to everything.

"No," Lee said. "But you sounded really bad on the phone and you needed something and I couldn't think of anything else, okay, yes."

Lee poured more into Peter's glass and they went into the living room as Peter got to the bit about Stella leaving the room in a huff. Lee moved stacks of magazines to make room for himself. Peter just sat back on his pile of newspapers as he got to the bit about thin ice. When Lee set the bottle and his glass on the coffee table, he noticed the bowl filled with what looked like a small pink Hallowe'en prop in a bed of congealed, dark orange Glow Goop, ready to be molded in a Thing Maker or Incredible Edible Machine. But it didn't look incredibly edible. It looked like what fetid Jello might look like if someone had tried to mold it into a cloven hoof then left it out in the warm sun for a very long time. It looked like a Geiger painting but with color. And it smelled like pickled meat and rubber. Lee wanted to ask what it was, but was afraid Peter might actually tell him. He placed a copy of Sunset© Magazine on it instead as Peter related the bit about passing Bear in the hallway and driving home in the rain. Then he noticed the jar that said "Pickled Pigs Feet."

"So," he said to change the subject. "What are you going to do, now?"

"I DON'T KNOW," Peter said in all caps, then added in lower case, "sorry. Sorry. Um... Do you want a snack?"

"No," Lee said emphatically, really unsure what to do next. Reassuring friends who had just quit their jobs wasn't on his résumé. Speaking French was, but that has nothing to do with this story.

"This is curtains on my life," Peter said, dramatically. "Closing night."

"No," Lee said, hoping that was reassuring. "It's just intermission. You're about to start the second act."

Peter looked at him oddly and said that didn't sound much like the Lee he knew.

"I was just trying to get you out of your funk with your own analogy," Lee said defensively. "Sort of dipping my toes in the tide pool of philosophy."

"Wow."

"Okay," Lee said. "Shut up. I take it back. Poop." (He's not you, Steve.) "Merde."

Lee took a drink to change the subject again and reminded himself never to wax poetic around a gay man and to stick with what he knew.

"How can you eat that stuff?"

"It was easy," Peter said absently.

"Eating pigs feet is easy?"

"No, I don't have to prepare them, I just dip them in cheese. Well, actually, when I realized I was doing that, I kind of went off them."

"I don't think I'll ever be able to eat again."

"Me, neither," Peter said, and eyed the edge of the Sunset©.

"Okay, do you need anything?" Lee said. "How can I help?"

Peter shrugged and sighed and took a swig of whiskey. Then he looked at the cans and said he could use some help finishing them and getting them to a bank, that he really needed them, now. Lee agreed and absent-mindedly started stacking coins in the sorter.

"We could," Peter said tentatively, "really look at starting that theater."

Lee stopped and sighed heavily and momentarily considered sampling a pig foot.

"Peter," he said, instead. "I've already started planning my blue chip stocks. I've already found a broker. As soon as The Odd Couple is over, I'm quitting theater. No one likes me, anyway. Why did you quit your job now?"

"I didn't quit my job at you," Peter said, pushed the Sunset© aside and started fingering the knuckle.

Lee almost got disgusted right there. His stomach started churning and lurching like it had in Installment Two. Cliche sauntered into the room, saw the bowl of congealed Cheddar, turned and left. Peter noticed what he was doing, re-covered the bowl and wiped his fingers on his pant leg.

"They're comfort food," Peter said when he noticed the color of Lee's face. "They're nasty, they're salty, they're vinegary, they're greasy, they're chewy, you have to work at them. When you're eating a pickled pigs foot all you can think about is the pickled pigs foot."

"Technically, it's a hoof," Lee said to gain some mastery over the conversation.

"And, technically, so are you."

"I'm a hoof?" Lee asked. "What does that mean?"

Peter was about to tell him, then realized he had absolutely no idea and just shook his head.

"Why the hell did you quit your job?" Lee asked sternly in order to focus on anything but the Sunset©.

"Because they were going to fire me if I didn't," Peter said just as sternly. Lee was being really mean. "Because they thought I was going to start a theater. With you. Which I wasn't. We. Weren't. But, now, maybe we should. Because I quit. My job. At the theater."

"Please. Let's not talk about a theater," Lee said, his head swimming, but not because of the whiskey or comfort food. Well, not totally from the whiskey or comfort food. Peter was being really obstinate. "We're not going to start a theater. I'm sorry you quit your job. I'm sorry everything is so upside down for you. I'm here to help, really, but I can't do this. I can't flip back and forth like this about my life, anymore. I need stability, and even thinking about starting a theater isn't stable. I'm from Chicago, for God's sake. I'm an accountant. I drive an SUV. I wear Dockers. And you need some stability, too. Especially now. And a good night's sleep. Let's just get this money in the bank and make sure your bills are paid and figure out what you need to do next. Let's just have a little fun right now and forget about it."

"Okay," Peter said.

"Let's go to The Office. Let's deal with the coins tomorrow. Or this weekend. I could float you some cash in the meantime."

"We're already drinking," Peter said.

"Let's go get something to eat, then," Lee said. "Something that doesn't wear socks."

When Lee got home, Abby was sitting on the couch watching My World and Welcome to It. Charlie was on his perch in his cage on top of the television set looking down, trying to see the screen, but the angle was all wrong. Every time the laugh track sounded, he ruffled his feathers in annoyance at having missed the joke.

"Hey," Lee said.

"The roads are a mess and I was scared driving," Abby said. "I found the spare key in that really natural looking rock with the little key compartment by your front stoop. It's so inconspicuous. We have so much granite in River Bend. Hope you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind," Lee said. "I like seeing you when I open the door. Especially since you were with me when I bought the rock and I showed you where I put it and you gave me a hard time about it then, and you're giving me a hard time about it now, little miss I Know Where Your Spare Key Is."

"Hey, I don't have cable," she said. "Mr. I Can't Come Up With a Good Nickname to Save My Butt."

He sat on the couch next to her and she asked where he'd been.

"Peter quit his job."

"Oh," Abby said. "Wow. Is he okay?"

Lee shrugged, then noticed her sweatshirt, which said "I've Fallen and I Can't Get Laid." He shook his head. He was going to ask if she had worn that in public, but didn't want to know. Or rather, he knew, but didn't want it confirmed. At least it didn't look like Glow Goop or have feet.

"Now you can start that theater," Abby said with a wicked grin.

"Not you, too," he snapped. "You and Peter won't be happy until you see my life completely turned upside down, will you? It's still a new year. I want to stop starting over."

"It's already the end of February," Abby reminded him. "Too late for resolutions."

(Good heavens, do you realize we completely passed Valentine's day by? What, are we going to celebrate every single holiday? Apparently not. We passed Hallowe'en by, too. Both of the romantic holidays. You're so gentle hearted, Steve.) Abby put her feet up on the coffee table, knocking over the Valentine's Day card Lee had gotten her. (Happy, Geoff? Ya.) Lee tried to form some sort of response to what Abby had said that would seem even slightly rational, but she disarmed him even more by smiling innocently and snuggled into the crook of his arm.

"I like it when you're off balance," she said, then looked up at him. "Actually, I don't think I've ever seen you on balance. I think it might frighten me."

Something made the hairs on the back of her arm tingle. She looked at them rising up off the skin. It was kind of cool. It was very cool that her boyfriend had a haunted house. Even if it was only a dog. Especially since it was only a dog. She was proud to have helped him choose it. The house, not the ghost. Life had gotten surprisingly good in the last three months since being kissed in front of her parents' house on a crisp Thanksgiving evening. Her heart ached a little for Lee, knowing what the last six months must be doing to him, but even that was nice, somehow. She liked having someone she cared enough about that her heart ached for them. She snuggled even closer and Lee gave up and put his arm around her, which made the hairs settle back down. They looked at each and the look warmed them both. They both knew what word could be used to describe the look and the warmth, but were both intelligent enough to keep it to themselves.

The next morning, Bear woke up in his chilly, dark bedroom, feeling like someone was watching him, which was strange, because Dee Dee had driven back from the restaurant and hadn't even turned the engine off when she stopped to let him out. He turned over to find Jim, fully dressed, sitting in the chair by the bed. He sat up quickly and pulled the blankets up to his chest.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Isn't this Installment Fifteen?" Jim asked just as Bear's pants and shirt, which he'd thrown on the end of the bed in frustration when he'd gotten home the night before, fell to the floor.

"No."

"Nice pants," Jim said.

Bear looked around his very large, very empty, very cold bedroom and fell back onto his pillow. Then he pushed the blankets aside and got up. The floor was freezing, but the burning cold on the soles of his feet was better then the coldness of the empty bed. He had slept all night, but didn't feel rested. His whole body was rigid with angry frustration which even a good pee wouldn't relieve.

He stumbled into the shower and turned on the hot water, hoping for some respite. It just made him frustrated and wet.

Peter didn't know what to do with himself on a weekday with no job to go to, so he went to the diner. He ordered breakfast and tried to keep up a conversation with Lee, who was trying to work on a cold, busy morning. By lunch time, he had generally bothered Twain, Lee and any customer who had the misfortune to sit at the counter. It wasn't like him to not notice when he was bothering people, but being unemployed was so new a sensation that more familiar sensations had to recede into the background. Twain understood what Peter was going through, but was very annoyed that he was going through it in the middle of the diner.

Lee saw the new annoyance, and, after finishing the lunch rush dishes, he came out front and suggested he and Peter take a little ride. Twain was annoyed that Lee hadn't asked him, first, and that he was going to be gone most of the afternoon, but was less annoyed that Lee was leaving than he was happy to get Peter out of the way. Thank God I'm me, he thought.

"Sure," Peter said. "Where?"

"I don't know," Lee said. "I don't care."

Twain watched them leave. There's got to be a poem in there somewhere, he thought, and reached for the box of Ohio Bluetips.

The trees were still covered in ice, but the roads had been salted that morning and had melted clear. There were small, crystalline wisps of clouds high up in the cold, blue sky and the sun shone a cold, pale yellow. The town wasn't the fantasy it had been the night before, but was still beautiful and everything from brick walls to telephone poles to gum murals flashed with bursts of compressed, cold sunlight that made Lee squint as he drove. Peter had wound himself down a bit over the last few hours, and didn't have much to say. They turned a corner and Peter noticed an empty shop that had once been a small carpet store. As they drove by, his eyes followed it, wondering if he could turn it into a theater. It was kind of small. He didn't mention it to Lee.

"Okay," Lee said. "The first thing you need to do is file for unemployment. That will buy you a little bit of time to figure out what's next. You won't get much, but you didn't get much at the Willow Lane, either, did you?"

"No," Peter said bitterly. "But I don't know if I could do that. I've never even thought about charity."

The next street they turned down was where the old tuxedo rental place had been. It had been closed for a while. There had once been two tuxedo rental places, but it was a one tuxedo rental place town, it seemed. That was even smaller than the carpet store, but Peter's recalcitrant mind perversely began designing the logistics of the space. He wondered where he had heard the phrase "logistics of the space," and silently cursed whoever had said it to him.

"It's not charity," Lee said. "You've been paying into it ever since you started working. It's a reserve account for your exact situation."

"I quit," Peter protested. "I thought you had to be fired."

They passed a small, empty warehouse. Small for a warehouse was still big compared to empty carpet or tuxedo rental stores. Peter almost pointed it out to Lee, but thought better of it at the last moment.

"No," Lee said. "It'll just take a little longer and you have to justify quitting, but you can get it."

Lee was finally in an element that he understood. It was pure accounting with known rules. They passed another empty building, a nondescript brick one. Peter remembered it having been the temporary town hall that became a dance studio when they built the permanent town hall, then a hamburger stand when the dance studio went under, then a sheet store when the hamburger stand was closed by the health department, then a dental office when the sheet store folded, then a bicycle shop, then a jelly bean shop, then a VCR repair shop. It must have been built on salt, Peter thought. Nothing grew there. It would be perfect for a theater.

"I can live off my coins for a bit while I think about it," he said, and they passed what had been the Campau Elementary School, until that had been turned into a roller rink, which seemed entirely too big to turn into much of anything. Peter had never realized how many empty buildings there were in River Bend. There weren't that many buildings at all, and they all seemed to be empty. He wondered where everyone worked.

"Don't think too long," Lee said. "I'm pretty sure there's a time limit to file."

"I could call some of my friends from college," Peter said wistfully.

"Why?"

"A lot of them work in theaters all around the country. Maybe I could get another job with one of them. It's all I know."

"Oh," Lee said.

"What?"

"Nothing," Lee said, not quite willing to admit he'd hate to see Peter leave town.

"Oh," Peter said, understanding anyway, like a proper gay man. "It's just a thought, anyway. I'm not even sure how to get ahold of any of them. 'Twas ever like this."

They turned a corner and there, in the middle of the block, was the Renaissance. With the sun gleaming off the ice like that, it seemed to Peter to beckon him. His heart quickened and he grabbed the arm rest to steady his head.

"Lee," he said weakly.

"What?"

"Can we stop?"

"Sure," Lee said as he pulled over, concerned by Peter's suddenly pale skin, sure he might be disgusted all over the dash board. "Are you okay?"

"It's the Renaissance," Peter said ethereally as he got out of the car and floated toward it in a very gay way.

Lee looked at Peter, then looked at the building, then looked at Peter again. He felt the color leave his face. He lost all the sense of control that talking about steady, adult things like unemployment insurance and cold, hard coins had given him. He felt like he needed to be disgusted all over the sidewalk.

"Peter!" he shouted.