Matt's face got very hot and he could feel his pulse in his fingertips that were, at that very moment, resting on the side of Agnes's bosom, just under her bra. Neither of them moved. Matt didn't think he could if he tried. He had remembered how to breathe, but seemed to be doing far too much of it. He felt lightheaded and the skin on his face seemed to be tingling somewhere in the distance and was starting to sweat. Half of his mind was celebrating his first boob. The other half was reminding him he had homework to do. The third half was closed for repair.

Just before the numb buzz could incapacitate all of Matt's higher motor functions, Agnes took his hand from under her blouse, set it gently down in his lap, then patted his knee kindly.

"We've got to get you home," she said with an amused smile.

The numb buzz in Matt's face turned to heat the moment Agnes let go of his hand. It was a relief to finally feel his nerve endings and hear something besides his own breath. It was a huge relief not to have to figure out what to do next, not to have to try to process the overpowering cascade of reactions he had just been avoiding and anticipating. And there was an agonizing, disappointed chasm somewhere at the crux of his ribs which was even more confusing than anything that had happened in the last several moments.

Matt didn't speak the entire ride to his house. He looked straight ahead the whole time, focusing on the pattern that the light fall of snowflakes made in the headlight beams, like two hypnotic, convulsing, converging cones of flecked white receding into the darkness. When Agnes stopped, he quickly ran from the car, closing the door a bit harder than was quite necessary, and ran down the walk toward his house. He stopped, ran back to the car and opened the door.

"Thanks for the ride," he said, closed the door again, then sprinted back down the walk.

When he slammed the front door behind himself his mother got up to switch the porch light off. He ran into his room and slammed that door. His mother looked down the hallway, puzzled.

"Matt?" she asked. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes!" Matt said through the glaringly shut bedroom door.

After Lee listened to the story, he patted Matt on the back, not sure what to say to the kid. Matt was still facing away from him, and glanced down at the pack of cigarettes. After a brief moment, he grabbed them, crunched the pack and threw them into the trash can under the counter. There was an old menu on the counter and Matt picked it up. He turned to leave and noticed Twain standing in the doorway.

"Please don't tell anyone," Matt said quietly to Lee, then lowered his head, made himself as small as possible and left, holding the menu in front of his belt.

"Viceroys," Twain said, shaking his head. "My dad smoked them. Filthy things."

He turned and followed Matt out front, holding a serving spoon in front of his belt. Lee sighed deeply and followed them, holding a shoe horn in front of his.

Lee sat at the counter, very hungry, and looked at his plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The tomato paste at the edge of the meatloaf, which had looked so inviting when the steaming plate had been served to him, now looked dark and stiff and was separating unappealingly from the meat like old paint pealing from the side of a barn. It looked like a strip of plastic, like something that would be displayed in the window of an inner city ethnic diner. The meat itself had a layer of congealed something on it that had been gravy but was now just gray. The mashed potatoes were dull and coagulated and had right angles like a pile of Bauhaus. His eyes protectively blocked out the vision of the canned green beans.

He pushed the plate away, dropped some money on the counter to pay his bill, gave Twain a wet, sloppy kiss (Steve! Sorry) and left. Twain tasted like smoke. (You are determinedly unrepentant, aren't you?) Viceroy.

Fred looked over his coffee mug at Peter, slightly disoriented. Peter had spent a lot of the evening very animated and a lot of it very quiet. He understood, of course, how could he not. The poor guy had gotten some strange news that morning and it would take a little time to sort of sort that all out. He had no idea how he would react if he had gotten some woman pregnant, besides being sure he would be very confused by it. Of course, he would love to have children and he figured he'd be a great father, as he was sure Peter would be, but if he were ever to have some, or one, he'd have to get them, or him, or her, some other way. He took a sip, then breathed in the robust, masculine scent of the strong, fresh brewed coffee.

"You want to go get a drink or something?" he asked.

Peter looked at him a little sadly for a moment, then took a sip of his own coffee. Then he took a bite of his raspberry cheesecake. It wasn't as good as the raspberry cheesecake he made. In fact, it sort of tasted like rice pudding in a graham cracker crust with raspberry jelly smeared on top. Not even raspberry jam. Raspberry jelly. Raspberry flavored jelly. He put his fork down. Then he picked it back up and had another bite. Then he finished it. And scraped the plate.

"That wasn't very good," he said and set his fork back down. "I'm surprised. Most of their food here is at least okay."

Og nodded and took another sip.

"Sorry," Peter said. "I'm not the best company tonight."

"No," Og said. "The best company is supposed to be Bobby."

"Bobby?"

"Company. You know. Sondheim. 'Bobby baby, Bobby bubbie.' I've never actually seen it. My mother used to sing it to me."

"That's really obscure," Peter said. "And you are really... "

Peter looked around to see if anyone was close enough to hear him, then said, "friendly," really quietly and blushed. Fred Ogg laughed out loud. (Steve, how did you know about Company? My mother used to sing it to me. Are you... friendly? Not in any sense of the word. And you're in my bubble.)

"I've really enjoyed myself," Peter said. "But I think I should probably just go home." He lifted his cup and added, "'one for my bubbie and one more for the road.'"

"Baby," Og said.

"What?" Peter said, startled.

"'One for my baby and one more for the road.'"

"I know," Peter whispered. "I was making a joke. You know. Company. Sondheim."

The young, blond waitress brought Peter's boxed slice of "to go" cheesecake and the check. Both of them took out their wallets, but Fred waved Peter's away, reminded him he had a per diem and insisted on paying.

"You sure you have to go?" Og said, trying not to look too disappointed.

Peter nodded sadly. Fred really understood, and said so. He didn't remind Peter that he had come out two days early just to see him. Instead, he told Peter to call him if he needed an ear to bend and made sure he had the hotel phone number. Then he told Peter to call him even if he didn't need an ear to bend and made sure he had his room number.

They walked out to Peter's car and hugged with very little reticence. For a moment, in fact, it seemed they may even kiss - very lightly, and very chastely - but reality set in before anything untoward could happen and they hugged once more, patted each other on the back and Peter went on his way. All the way back to his hotel room, Fred held his briefcase in front of his belt. (I knew he brought the briefcase for a reason!) An umber cat rubbed against his calf.

"Go away," Og said.

All the way back to River Bend, Peter's brain was bouncing around in his head and his stomach was bouncing around in his abdomen. Damn cheesecake. I should have stayed and gone to have a drink with him, he thought. After all, he did come all the way out here two days early. What the hell am I going to do? Damn Roz. But I'm going to be a father. Who has no money and is trying to start a very risky business. Damn Lee. And Fred is such a nice guy. Damn him.

Peter went straight to the kitchen the moment he got home. He knew he had at least a small piece of Cheddar in the refrigerator. Cliche rubbed against his leg and he realized the poor thing hadn't been fed. When he got the cat food can down, he noticed the bottle of Canadian on the shelf and realized that would even be better than cheese. As he was setting the food out for Cliche, it dawned on him that he could have both, but it seemed, somehow, he should start with the Canadian. He reached for the bottle, but stopped. He didn't want either, really. He knew it must be bad when he didn't want either. He went into the living room, picked up the phone and dialed.

"Hello," a voice that didn't sound like Lee said.

"Lee?" Peter asked sheepishly, realizing how late it was and really embarrassed that he had dialed a wrong number. Before he could apologize, however, the wrong number told him that she was Abby.

"I needed to talk to someone. Sorry, I didn't stop to think that you'd be there," Peter said, already rethinking the whole cheese/Canadian thing. "Sorry to interrupt your evening. I'll talk to you soon. Sorry. Say hi to Lee. I'll talk to him tomorrow, I guess. Sorry."

"No," Abby said. "Lee's been acting weird all night. Come on over. Bring a bottle. Do you have a board game? Anything'll be more fun than sitting here having Lee being all weird and not talking about anything."

"I have Jenga®," Peter said.

Peter gave Abby a hug that was much less reticent than the one he had given Fred, then handed her the bottle and the Jenga® box while he took off his coat. As he did that, he stepped back a bit to look at her sweatshirt, which said "I live in the moment. Well... I live in a moment". He smiled.

"Hey, Peter," Lee said from the living room.

"Hello, Lee," Peter sighed, then sat on the couch.

The odd, hypnotic rhythms and almost monotone melody of the Eurhythmics' Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) pulsed from the stereo and wormed their way into Peter's scalp. Abby sat between them and asked Peter how he was. He shrugged. She asked how his date was. Peter gave Lee an accusatorial look, then said okay. Abby looked at Lee, then at Peter. Then back at Lee. Then she shook her head, got up and served the two annoying men very stiff shots of Canadian. As Annie says, some of them want to abuse you. She poured herself one just so they didn't think she was trying to take advantage of them, lifted it in salute and took a sip. They lifted theirs half-heartedly and both took a little more than a sip. Abby could almost see the amber tongue-loosener spread out and relax both of their reserve. Some of them want to be abused.

"I had a talk with Matt this afternoon," Lee said quietly.

"I got Roz pregnant."

That even stopped Abby. And Charlie. And Gable. The children next door pressed their little noses against the window of their back door. A flock of condors stopped circling and landed quietly in the back yard. A moose lifted his head and stood very still. Edward Francis Hutton stopped being dead and took note. Freeze Frame started playing. You get the picture.

"Oh," Abby finally said, just to break the mood.

Lee took another sip, pondered for a moment, smiled, shook his head and said, "Yeah, right."

"No," Peter insisted. "She's pregnant."

"Okay, so who's the father?" Lee asked, refusing to believe Peter wasn't trying to pull some elaborate prank. Or even a simple one.

"Me, Lee," Peter said, a little flabbergasted.

"Really?" Lee said. "So you're straight, now. Or bi," he conceded.

Peter sputtered, a lot flabbergasted. Abby hit Lee on the back of his head. Besides the actual turn of the conversation, Peter was flummoxed that Lee was talking so openly and without veiled pronouns about his orientation in front of a third party. Even if the third party were Abby. Who probably knew by now anyway. And if she didn't she certainly did after that. So he might as well just get over that part and get on with being flummoxed by the turn of the conversation.

"No, I'm gay," Peter said. It wasn't so bad saying it out loud in front of Abby. Especially after she'd been so supportive by hitting Lee on the back of the head.

"But you slept with a woman," Lee said, densely. "I mean, you did, didn't you? Sleep with her?"

Peter sighed deeply for major dramatic effect. Then he rolled his eyes. Abby agreed.

"Yes, Lee," he said. "Once. We've had this conversation. It was only once and it will never happen again, I can assure you. What was your conversation with Matt? Sheesh."

Abby shook her head. At least they were both talking now, but she wasn't sure it was any better that way. She refreshed both their glasses, cleared the coffee table books from the coffee table and set the Jenga® game up.

"He asked me not to tell anyone."

The music changed from the abrupt J. Geils Band to something sexual, high pitched. For God's sake, Peter thought. That's Prince.

"What the hell are you playing, Lee?" he asked.

"Montovani dance remix," Lee said. They didn't believe him. "Time Life Music 'The Rolling Stone Collection'. The 1982-1986 disc. I borrowed it from Geoff."

Abby poured him more Canadian and stared expectantly, not willing to let him off the hook now that he was speaking.

"The Talking Heads is the next track," he said, hoping she meant she wanted more information about the Time Life series. Her look disabused him of that notion very quickly. He sighed, beaten by the inevitable. "Agnes took him home the other night and put his hand on her... um... tit."

That stopped Abby. And Charlie. And Gable. And the kids. And the condors. You know.

"Was she naked?" Abby asked.

Both Lee and Peter shuddered. Lee took a huge gulp of whiskey, shuddered again and told her no, that they were both fully clothed, then related in as much detail as he could remember the story Matt had told him earlier. He didn't embellish it as much with descriptions of hyperventilation, regret and relief, but he got the main points that led to the special moment communicated.

"Nothing really happened," he said quietly with a shrug. "I mean she took his hand under her bra, left it there a moment, then took him home."

"I'll bet," Abby said.

"No. No, not that," Lee said quickly. Peter laughed once, then was immediately ashamed of himself. "She took his hand out, and drove him to his house. Nothing really happened."

"But it was at least attempted molestation," Abby said, just a little indignant.

Lee shrugged, uncomfortable. "He did hyperventilate."

That made Peter really laugh, which made him feel really guilty for laughing, which made him swallow wrong, which made him start coughing, which made Charlie pointedly and indignantly ruffle his feathers. Abby suggested they start playing and Lee pulled one of the wooden Jenga® game pieces from the bottom and effortlessly placed it on the top of the neat pile. Peter took another sip and coughed once or twice for good measure.

"So what are you going to do, Peter?" Lee said to change the subject to something slightly less uncomfortable.

Peter shrugged. Abby pulled her piece and placed it equally effortlessly. Peter pulled a piece out and knocked the pile over when he tried to place it on top. Abby and Lee laughed.

"No wonder you got Roz pregnant," Abby said, and Peter blushed. She started setting the pile up again. "So who's this Roz woman who took advantage of you?"

"A friend," Peter said after another large sip of whiskey. "I've known her for years. She kicked me in the face at Beard's Hill. She works at the grocery store."

"At the deli counter," Lee added and took his own sizable sip. "She's nice. She helped me get my car. She gave me an extra slice of salami once."

"And then Peter gave it back to her," Abby said innocently as she finished piling up the Jenga® pieces.

Peter said, "Abby!" very indignantly. But he also laughed. Really hard.

The Talking Heads finished and Sting started explaining that, if you love someone, you needed to set them free. Peter laughed even harder. (That's enough music, Geoff. And it's going by way too fast. But I love this CD. And no more food. I wasn't talking about food. It's a callback. That might be too much. Yeah, it might be. The next song is Boys of Summer... All right, you can used that one.) Abby went first this time, then asked Peter if he had told Fred about Roz. Peter sighed, said yes, and knocked the stack down again when he went.

"Sorry," he said, really embarrassed. "Sorry. I've got a lot on my mind."

Abby told him he had to set it up this time, and got up to get some snacks.

"What are you going to name it," she asked from the kitchen.

"Agnes," Lee said with a dark, mischievous grin. His eyes were black, like pools of olives. The black ones. He was wheezing maniacally and his face looked like the seventh plane of hell. Or Orson Welles after an eleventh chili dog.

"Funny guy," Peter said and Lee giggled.

"Poor Matt," Abby said as she came back with a bowl filled with a mix of Fiddle Faddle, Poppycock and Screaming Yellow Zonkers. By Lincoln Snacks.

Peter, who had already made his move without disastrous results for once, grabbed a handful of the popcorn mix and got most of it to his mouth without dropping any on the floor, the couch or his lap. Lee took his turn, placing the wooden stick very precariously on top of the pile, balancing it on a single stick that was balancing on a single stick. Peter scowled at him.

"Poor Matt?" Lee said. "When I was sixteen I spent hours fantasizing about touching my first breast."

When Abby sat back down, something whimpered a little. Abby scooted aside a little and it sounded like something fell off the couch and Peter felt the small hairs on his upper arm twitch.

"Okay, first of all," Abby said, deftly placing her piece under Lee's, making it more stable, "Agnes is an adult. An adult in her sixties. And second of all, it had to have really confused him. I'm sure when you fantasized about it, it was with someone roughly your own age, right?"

"Actually, I had a thing for Marla Gibbs."

"Who?"

"Florence," Peter said. "In the Jeffersons. I think he's choking. Joking." He looked at Lee, who was starting to split in two. He had gone from zero to drunk in sixty seconds. So to speak. "Right Weezie?"

Lee wobbled a little. But he didn't fall down. Abby shook her head and asked Peter if he would want his sixteen year old child's innocence to be tainted like that. She didn't want to be deflected, it seemed. Not even by two men who were becoming increasingly anaesthetized.

"Hey, my kid isn't even born, yet," Peter replied, and placed his piece precariously on top of hers. Surprisingly, it didn't fall. It did wobble. "But no. Don't think I would. No. Innocense is precious."

Then his face got a little pale. Abby asked what was wrong, and looked around for something in case he was getting sick. He told her he was having enough trouble dealing with imminent fatherhood. Thinking about being a father of a teenager was a little more than he could process. He didn't say it at all that elegantly, but that was the gist. Then he took a mouthful of the snack mix, this time spilling more than he got into his mouth. Then he took another swig of whiskey and wondered absently what the baby would look like. Lee pictured Roz, then looked at Peter, who was also beginning to disassociate, and took another swig of Canadian. Then he made a Jenga® move. The stack didn't even tremble. Lee did, though.

"When they're first born," Abby informed Peter calmly, "they all look like a cross between Ernest Borgnine and Mel Tormé. And Charles Bronson. And Cher."

Peter smiled, then sighed, then looked down at his hands. Abby prodded a little, it didn't take much with Peter, and he told her he still really wasn't sure how to react to Roz and the baby and that Og was a really, really nice guy, but he wasn't sure how much he should lead the poor guy on because there was so much going on in his life right then, especially the Renaissance and becoming a father and they hadn't even decided on a first play and it was just a little overwhelming at the moment. Abby patted him on the back understandingly. Then suggested they should do "Bringing Up Baby". Lee pointed out that that was really about raising a leopard and a socialite, not an actual baby. Abby flicked him in the ear.

"Ow," he said.

"We could do Camelot," Lee said.

"I love the Arthur legend," Peter said. "But no one's done it right. Well, maybe Dudley Moore."

Abby reminded them that, although she'd only seen the movie on television, she was sure that play had a dozen sets and twice as many characters in it. And would need an orchestra. And period costumes. And actors who could sing. To stop her, Peter told her they were just choking. Joking.

"So," Abby said around a mouthful of glazed popcorn, "have you and your life partner played hide the beans and franks, yet?"

"Life partner?" Peter was dismayed all the way through the Canadian. "We've only had two dates!"

"How many does it take?"

"Three."

(Okay, Steve. Stop. Abby would never talk like that. And gay men are not life partners after two dates. So how many does it take? I don't know, I've never made it that far. Poor Geoff. And what the hell is that about beans and franks? I don't know, it just sounded gay. When are you going to get cable? Bitch.)

"So," Abby said, "have you and your fellow been together, yet?"

Peter was dismayed by the question. All the way through the Canadian. So was Lee, obviously, he flicked her in the ear. Actually, he tried, but got more hair than ear.

"What?" Abby said.

"You shun't ask questions like that," Lee slurred.

"Why not?" she said with a small laugh.

"Don't know," he said and made another flawless Jenga® move. "If he wants to tell you, he'll tell you."

"I'm right here, you know?'' Peter said sullenly.

"Shut up, Peter, 's not about you," Lee said. He couldn't quite remember what the thread of the conversation was. Oh, yeah. If Peter and Fred Ogg had slept together. He took another sip of whiskey to get the thought out of his mind. An actual swig, in fact.

"Sorry," Peter said. Poor Peter. (That's a really nice touch, Steve. Shut up, Geoff.)

"Okay," Abby said casually as she made her move. The stack of wooden sticks swayed a bit, but stayed upright. "So Peter, do you want to tell me?"

"I don't want to know," Lee said emphatically, shaking his head. Which was a small mistake.

"So go pee," Abby said without looking at him.

"No," Peter said a little sadly. "We haven't."

Lee was ready to put his fingers in his ears as soon as Peter started talking. He was already humming. Greensleeves. He was extremely happy that Peter hadn't and that he didn't have to hear it and that the whole conversation was over. She Bop was playing, which didn't help. Track number eleven.

"We've only been on two dates and we've barely hugged," Peter continued, completely unsympathetic to Lee's discomfort. "We haven't even held hands. What kind of guy do you think I am?"

"Well, you got Roz all pregnant, didn't you?" Abby asked with a small, mischievous smile. "Anyway, would you tell me if you had?"

Evidently, she didn't want to let this go, either. Abby could be tenacious when she wanted to be. Especially if it annoyed Lee. Especially if he were being particularly annoying.

"I wonder what they felt like," Lee said.

That made Abby and Peter both stop short. It didn't affect Charlie or the kids, though.

"What?" Abby said, turning full on to Lee. It made her bump the table, sending the stack of Jenga® sticks into a cascading tumble.

"Matt. Agnes. Breasts," Lee said, not noticing that he'd won again.

"You felt 'em, didn't you?" Peter said.

"What?" Lee sputtered, which made his head spin a little. "No!"

Abby and Lee shuddered. Abby, because the image of her boyfriend touching those particular breasts suddenly imposed itself on her brain. Lee, because his fingers actually imagined what they would have felt like. That and the whiskey.

"Well, she sheemed like she was after you there for a while," Peter insisted. "Seemed. And I know se usually gets what she wants. I mean, look at Billy. And Headline."

"And Jim," Abby added.

"And Ron," Peter said quickly to get the picture of Jim and Agnes out of his head.

"And Matt," Abby finished.

Lee assured them both very emphatically that she had not gotten what she wanted that one time. That he had spent the night with hors d'oeuvres and a box of crayons. Which didn't really make the explanation any clearer to either of them.

"Well, I can't imagine what they felt like," Peter said. "I've never felt one."

"Didn't you feel Roz's?" Lee said, surprised. He wondered how you could get someone pregnant without at least touching their breasts. At least one of them.

"Oh," Peter. "Must have. I guess. Don't 'member what it felt like, though."

"Hey," Lee said suddenly. "Don't say anything about Matt. He asked me not to tell anyone."

"But we should tell someone, shouldn't we?" Abby asked, concerned. "I mean, shouldn't we?"

Lee said again that nothing had happened. As far as he could see it was either one way or another, something had happened or it hadn't. He was an accountant, after all. It was either one or it was two. He then argued as coherently as he could that it was really up to Matt to say something to someone anyway, and the way he unloaded to him it probably wouldn't be long before he did tell someone. A lot of someones. Abby reluctantly agreed, determined, however, to keep her eye on Agnes. She didn't voice this. Then Peter asked them not to tell anyone yet about Roz.

"Anyone?" Abby asked and Peter nodded. "Not even Agnes?"

"I think Kim and Jim are dating eash other," Lee said to change the subject.

Peter shuddered. Abby said she bet they had already done it, that it probably hadn't even taken two dates and then suggested that she and Lee should double date with them. Lee shuddered. Then Abby asked when she was going to get to meet Fred. Peter half-heartedly smiled, then turned crimson in a very endearing way. Abby asked when she was going to meet Roz. Peter took a handful of snack mix.

The conversation turned to less important things. Peter visibly relaxed in a way he hadn't been able to in days. Lee was no longer brooding. Abby felt like she had done a good job, and put the Jenga® pieces away.

"Stevie," Peter said.

"Who's Stevie?" Abby asked.

"'Sa play," he explained. "Three people. Thass what we should do. G'night. I love you."

He tipped over on the couch.

"I love you too, Peter," Abby assured him. "But I'm not sleeping with you."

Peter slept on Lee's couch that night, which was becoming a habit on drunken game nights at Lee's, with Gable curled up in the crook of his knees. Gable snored quietly. Charlie stared. All night.

Lee and Peter got to the Renaissance late on Saturday. They didn't talk much the entire day. When Peter got home that evening, he called Fred Ogg at the hotel and they talked softly for two and a half hours. Sunday evening, Peter called him again and they talked even longer.

Monday morning, the man from the telephone company arrived at the Renaissance at exactly ten forty-one. Peter told him he was late, then let the man install the phone lines.

Tuesday evening, Kim and Jim decided to go get dollar drafts at The Office. It was pleasantly noisy and the crowd was pleasingly young. Except the really, really old woman in the fur coat with the Hungarian accent and sweet perfume, but she usually blended in nicely with the college students. The air in the room smelled like a hodge-podge of sweet spice, leather, musk and citrus colognes and flowery, soapy, citrusy and musky perfumes with a hint of pachouli mixed with old beer rags and young sweat. It was invigorating and somehow light.

Everyone turned slightly to watch as Kim and Jim walked by. They were, after all, a very cute couple. They sat at the far end of the bar, looking almost like elder statesmen among all those college students. Well, very young elder statesmen. Okay, they looked like yacht-club wannabes, but they exuded more class than everyone but the Hungarian woman. And Headline, of course, who had his own undefinable version of class that involved ice blue eyes and hair as black as olives.

Kim was wearing Brut and Jim wore a Grey Flannel knock-off. (Brut, Geoff? That's just stupid. Fine, Steve, what would she be wearing? A thong. Why do I even try? Because you care.)

"Hey, Kim," Headline said. "7&7?"

"Diet," she said with a nod. "Don't forget the cherry."

"Beer, Chief?" he asked Jim.

"Hey, Champ," Jim said, feeling, somehow, that he and Headline were compatriots. That they had bonded. Somehow. Headline didn't feel that way. He simply remembered what drink the guy usually ordered. "Yeah. Beer. Thanks, Boss. Don't forget the cherry."

Jim smiled at his own joke. Kim looked at him strangely and Headline cocked his head slightly to the side. Finally, Headline smiled. He'd humor almost anyone for a tip. There was the barest hint in the air of music from the juke box, a rumbling beat and the hint of melody that helped define the rest of the noise in the room like an under-painting or a mixed metaphor.

"You going to be in the next play?" Headline asked Kim when he set her drink on the bar.

"No," she cooed. "I'm not sure I'll be working at the Willow Lane much, anymore."

That got Headline's attention. His pants tented. But no one noticed because they were behind his bar apron and he was behind the bar. The old lady in the fur coat walked by to see who had summoned her. Kim explained that she was working with the guys at the Renaissance and that there was a slim chance that she might even be able to direct, there. Which she knew she'd never be able to do at the Willow Lane with Agnes Livingstone around.

"Oh," she added, almost as an afterthought. "Did you hear about her and that kid?"

Headline and Jim looked at each other, then both of them assured her they hadn't heard and listened attentively while she related the story of the ride home. Billy (the device)™ was sitting a few stools away. He got up and stood behind Jim to listen to the story. After she told the story, Kim pulled the cherry from the stem and slowly peeled it, chewing on the skin methodically.

"Wow," Headline said. "Where did you hear that?"

"My best friend is dating Lee Harris, you know, the guy who's opening the Renaissance with Peter, who used to work with the kid at Twain's. You dated her, didn't you?" she asked Headline, then ate the naked cherry.

He nodded and smiled.

"I did, too," Billy said.

"Guilty," Jim added.

Kim looked at all three men, then shook her head.

"What did you all see in her?" she asked, incredulously, then chewed on the cherry stem.

Headline sort of gazed into the distance above their heads and a sly grin spread across his face. His tent tented. Billy explained that Agnes knew things that nobody should know and could impart the knowledge in ways that led to very exciting fits of uncontrollable blackouts. Billy read a lot. He was, after all, a device. Kim looked at Jim.

"She was a tall, hot drink of water," he said. "The tallest and hottest."

Kim's face got the look that Jim was beginning to recognize. He had seen it on Stella's face. And Peter's. And Lee's. Agnes's version was a bit different, but she did have a version of it. Headline smiled. He liked random theater and enjoyed it quietly wherever it presented itself.

"What?" Jim said. "Um... I gotta go pee."

Kim grabbed his arm and Jim squeaked. He recognized the look, knew it was dangerous, that it often led to his being sent home, but he never quite know what had brought it on. Poor Jim.

"The tallest?" Kim asked slowly and pointed. "The hottest? That old, old woman?"

"You're hurting me," Jim said in a small, squeal. "It was just... um... an analogy... ?"

Kim wasn't satisfied.

"It was a metaphor," Billy said, helpfully.

"Then what's an analogy?" Jim asked. He had to figure out how to stop making people look at him like that.

"Stop changing the subject, Buster," Kim said. "Or you are going to be about as dead as Ali McGraw in Love Story."

"That," Headline said, "is an analogy."

"And a cold one, too," Billy added.

Jim still wasn't sure what he had said wrong. He went back in his mind, trying to replay the conversation just before the look. Life's hard, he thought. Okay, she was asking about Agnes and they had all answered. It was obviously something about his answer.

"God, I wonder what you think about me?" Kim said, rolling over his attempt to figure it out.

"You," Jim said, guilelessly. "You're beautiful."

"Don't you beautiful... ," she said, then her face softened. "You think I'm beautiful?"

"Yeah," Jim said, as if he were shocked that she didn't know.

Kim put her arm around his waist and nuzzled him a little. He breathed in her Brut and looked over her shoulder at Headline, then Billy, sort of sheepishly. Headline winked and Billy nodded his head in approval. Thus the three men bonded. The male of the species will survive another day. Jim still didn't know what he had done, wrong or right, but he drank his beer as if he did.

"Just never talk about Agnes like that again," Kim said, looking up into his face, and he nodded very rapidly.

That had been the first fight in their whirlwind weekend romance. But they had survived it. They were both young, after all, and blond.

As Headline went around the bar replenishing drinks, news of Agnes's latest escapade spread.

"Did you hear about Peter?" Kim asked Jim.

The next morning, just as Stella was settling into her daily routine of numb attempts to tackle the ever growing pile of things she was expected to take care of, the door to her office burst open. The director of End of the World violently propelled a copy of the River Bend Bee onto her desk, and Stella pulled back, afraid something or someone would strike her with the thing. When no one did, she looked up at the director. His teeth were clenched, his hands were spasmodically forming and unforming fists, his ears were red and veins were growing on his forehead and neck, pulsating dangerously.

"Um... ," Stella said. "What?"

"The announcement," he said as if that explained everything. When it didn't seem to, he added. "It's not there." That still didn't quite get any sign of recognition, so he said, very slowly, "for my play. Which opens on Friday. Of this week. And the announcement isn't in the 'What's Happening this Weekend in River Bend' column. Which comes out in the Wednesday edition of the Bee."

"Oh," Stella said, her mind spinning like a spaniel on a Linoleum floor. "So, why didn't you say anything about it not being in Sunday's column?"

The director's face turned white and his eyes got really, really small.

"You didn't put it in Sunday's paper, either?"

"Well," Stella said, regaining some of her normal composure. She even attempted a hair flip, which wasn't badly executed, she was happy to note. "If you'd seen that, you would have been able to warn me about today, wouldn't you have been?"

The director sputtered and stammered out several profane descriptions of body parts and bodily functions, but the phone rang so Stella put her finger up to quiet him while she answered it.

"Willow Lane," she said officiously, then listened for a moment. "Yes... I... yes, no... we're talking about... yes, your director is right... "

She got quiet and listened for a moment, nodded a couple of times and hung up. Another line was already ringing and she hesitantly answered that. After the third call, she stopped picking the phone up. She looked up at the director, who was still breathing heavily and looked pre-coronary. She told him those were his actors, which he had already assumed. Actors don't like not seeing their names in the paper, even the River Bend Bee.

"And while we're on the subject of the actors," the director said, still looking like a meteor that was about to leave a very big crater in the room, "I sent you all the info for the program last week and I never saw a proof before you sent it to the printer."

"Program... " Stella said in an 'oh, fuck' sort of way. Poor Stella.