Og forced himself to focus on Peter's face, which, under normal situations, wouldn't have been very hard, but the room was full of distractions, some fairly unpleasant, some simply curious, and Peter's face just reminded him how upset he was with the rest of Peter at the moment. He realized that the waitress, the woman Peter had just called "Amber", was still there, waiting, obviously, for them to order something. He seriously considered ordering rye. A whole bottle. He'd never tasted rye, but the situation seemed to demand it.

"I think I need a beer," he said sort of quietly, not wanting to glance over at the waitress in case one of the nipples escaped and he was caught looking.

"Two," Peter said.

"Any snacks, Muffin?" she asked, and when he shook his head, added, "Don't kid momma, you want a snack."

Peter insisted that this time he didn't. At least right then. Then he asked her when she's be dancing and she said in about twenty minutes and he told her to break a leg. She cried and slapped him. I mean thanked him and went to get their beers.

"How," Fred asked as soon as Amber clicked away on her high-healed shoes, "do you know ... um... so much about this place?"

(That should be high-"heeled" shoes, Geoff. Maybe they're well-mannered. Nope, same spelling. Um... she fixed them last night? Okay, if anyone laughs at that one, you get a dollar. Laughter by employees, vendors, management, agents and affiliates of Joseph Coaler Productions™ and their friends and family excluded, void where prohibited by law. Odds of winning determined by number of readers of the preceding joke. Decisions of judges are final. All prizes may not be awarded.)

"We come here a lot to have a place to sit and plan," Peter said. "And once or twice, Amber came by the Ren to help us paint." Then he looked down at the surface of the table for a few moments. "I'm sorry."

Og was all determined to stay mad at Peter for the rest of his life, and possibly even longer, but when Peter looked back up at him, his face was all soft and sincere and sad, like a poinsettia at New Years or a damp monkey or a kid who's allergic to ice cream. In August. At noon. At a birthday party. Someone else's. (Steve, that's just cruel. Did that happen to you? Shut up. That's sad.)

"I came all this way," Og said.

Peter nodded and said he knew and looked like he might cry, and Fred was afraid he'd never be able to be mad at anyone ever again if that happened.

"I'm glad you did," Peter said. "I'm sorry."

Amber brought their beers and Og took a big sip to regain some mastery over his emotions.

"Can I... " Fred said after setting the mug down and wiping the foam from under his nose. "Um... come over? To your house?"

Peter was about to take a swig, but instead his whole body stopped functioning, even his eyelids and fingernails. He wanted to say yes, wanted to in the worst way, in the best way, but was afraid to because he wasn't sure what Fred expected, and he wasn't sure what he, himself expected, and he knew that, if they did go, someone would be sure to hear about it, especially with Lee dating Abby and all, and he wasn't sure he was at all ready for someone to know he'd had Fred Ogg over, even if there was nothing, really, to know except, maybe, that they'd watched TV, and if there were something to know about having him over, like that they'd left the TV on, he'd really, really need to tell Lee about it, but wasn't sure he could tell Lee about it and Lee would be weird about it and would tell Abby about it, then everyone would know about it. The one thing he was sure about was that he knew what his house looked like. And at the very least, he knew he wanted Og to like him, and what his house looked like might have a very negative effect on that and he would then have to spend the rest of his life or longer slapping himself repeatedly.

"My house is a mess," he said quietly, but Fred waved that objection away. "No," Peter insisted. "You don't understand." But Fred insisted on waving the objection away.

Just then the music swelled. Fred Ogg made the mistake of glancing toward the stage. Amber, now wearing considerably less, was gyrating toward the pole in the center. Fred's eyes constricted to avoid allowing any unfortunate image to enter his brain. The only thing they could focus on looked strangely like yarmulkes worn by two bald men. Strangely, he found it very difficult to look away. To break the trance, he got up and moved to Peter's side of the table, sat and gave Peter a (Steve, did you remember to turn the coffee maker off? I think so. Could you check, please? Oh, okay) very gentle kiss.

(Yes, it's off. Thanks.)

"I really don't care right now if you live in a sanitary landfill next door to a sewage processing plant, downwind from a stockyard. In August. At noon."

Now Peter sort of knew what Fred expected and started figuring out how to tell Lee. At least the bathroom's clean, he thought. He cleared his throat.

"You're not allergic to cats, are you?" he said in a high, tight voice.

As Lee sat on his couch reading the letter, his face got stranger and stranger. He slowly put the first page behind the second and read that. His arm muscles got tight and his hands gripped the paper, effectively antiquing it.

"Beverly!" he shouted, which caused Charlie to flutter briefly, then glare. Stupid bird.

Abby had been watching his every subtle shade of reaction as he'd read the letter, right up until the final clenching of his face and expulsion of her name, with increasing concern.

"Why are you so upset that your ex-wife is having a baby?" she said. An odd redness was creeping up her cheeks. "Do you wish it was yours?"

"No," Lee shouted. "Don't be stupid."

"Now I'm stupid?"

"No!" Lee shouted, thinking he might just give up women for the rest of his life. "You're not stupid, you're being stupid."

That didn't really help. Abby countered and Lee countered that. Abby pulled her coat off. Her sweatshirt said Eunuchs Make Better Lovers and had a picture of the Vienna Boys Choir. Lee didn't notice. There was shouting and yelling and spitting and drooling. The sound of glass breaking. A siren going off. More fluttering of Charlie wings. A whimpering in the basement. You know, conflict. Then there was calm.

Abby dunked her tea bag. Lee buttered his crumpet.

"So, if it's not that," Abby said with the utmost civility, "why are you so upset?"

"She explains," Lee said calmly, "that, since she and the Jerk are about to have a child, it might be inappropriate to have a small dog around and is very graciously giving the fucking thing to me."

"Oh," Abby said. "Is that all? Just say no."

"I can't!" Lee shouted, in much the same tone as he'd used when he'd shouted his wife's name at the end of several installments. (Episodes, in case someone at HBO is reading. And is looking for their next hit series. To air on Sunday evenings. Starring Danny Bonaduce as himself.)

"Why not?" Abby didn't care about HBO series. Her relationship was on tenuous ground and she needed to find something useful to hold on to.

"She goes on to explain that her only other option is to put the thing down at the pound."

"She'd do that?" Abby said, truly amazed.

Lee shrugged.

"That's cold."

Lee had been terrified when Andrew had used Excalibur to get Beverly to agree to their terms. He'd been afraid that it wouldn't work and he would be saddled with the damn thing and not have an equitable split of their belongings, but Andrew had been right, the dog had been that important to her. How could she now so blithely give it up?

"I don't want Excalibur, I already have a dog!" he said, his voice dripping with despair.

Abby thought that was funny, but had the good sense not to laugh.

Across town at Twain's, Twain sat at the counter, nursing a glass of Tang™, tapping the edge of a penny against the counter top, thinking. Matt had gone home and the last customer had paid and left. The dishes were done, the table tops wiped. He tapped the coin once, then spun it with a flick from his forefinger. For a moment it became a transparent copper ball. As the ball flattened then slowed to a wobbly, hollow disk, Twain got up, went around to the back of the counter, picked up his address book, then dialed the phone. The penny clattered to a stop.

"It's Twain," he said into the phone.

Peter hesitated at his front stoop. He didn't want to hesitate long because it was very, very cold. The entire time he drove, besides making sure in the rear-view mirror that Og was still right behind him, he had been concentrating on how best to introduce Fred to his particular, peculiar environment. Just open the door, push him in and let the chips fall where they may? Or, in this case, the dust and cat hair? Stand outside long enough to really, really convince him in excruciating detail just what he was in for? Simply ignore the whole issue and hope Og didn't notice? Tell him he'd changed his mind and that Fred should just go home and forget about him, forget he ever knew him, forget River Bend even existed? Now he was on his stoop, still stooping. Fred got out of his car, walked up the walk and gave Peter an awkward hug.

"Well," Peter said.

"Yes," Og said.

"I... it really isn't... ," Peter said.

"Come on. I'm serious. I don't care. I used to work in politics."

Peter laughed, closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened the door. Og tried to stifle his reaction.

"Jesus, Peter, this is horrific. You're a filthy pig, I can't believe I ever even considered dating you. This is disgusting, what the hell's the matter with you? Can't you see this? Can't you smell this? You are a filthy, filthy man pig... Filthy."

(Steve? Yes? Stop. Fred wouldn't say that. He's kind. You would say that. I'm not fiction. Maybe you should be. You filthy, filthy man pig.)

"It's not that bad," Fred said. "Really. You should see Geoff's place."

(Steve! You can't yell at me, I'm fiction.)

Peter took Og's coat, moved some papers so he could sit on the couch, then went into the kitchen to feed Cliche and pull together some snacks.

Ten minutes later they were both sitting on the couch, eating Yankee pot roast (That's a snack? It's Peter. Oh, yeah. Do you think we've interrupted this one too much? Mmm hmmm. Okay, I'll stop) and drinking mead. (Mead, Geoff? Gee, that lasted three whole words. Yeah, and one of them was mead.)

Editor's Note: Due to time constraints, we will now fast forward to the seventh inning.

Peter and Og sat on the couch, Og's arm around Peter's shoulders, and Peter flipping channels on the television. Cliche sat staring at them with heavily lidded eyes.

"... It's the bottom of the seventh and... I can't believe it, Larry. I'm still thinking about that sixth inning. Wasn't that the most amazing... " the announcer said. Peter kept flipping. "Tonight's presentation of The Way We Were," another announcer said, and Peter sighed contentedly, "will not be shown. In it's place, Death Wish staring Charles Bronson." Peter groaned and flipped some more. He almost stopped at Body Heat, but realized his friendship with Fred was entirely too new for that one.

Finally, he simply turned the sound down, set the remote on the coffee table next to the small pile of Lite Brite™ pegs and they just kept talking to each other. They talked about their parents and Og's siblings. They talked about people they'd known back in school and how interesting it would be to still be in touch with them. They talked about movies and music and books and plays that they liked and didn't like. They talked about the furniture business and running a theater. They talked about Shaft. They talked about Cliche and Stella and Jim and Kim and Lee and food and their love lives up until that point. Well, Fred's. Peter didn't have one. There was a small lull in the conversation.

Og glanced at his watch.

"Oh, my God," he said. "It's three-thirty. I have to be at the store in less than four hours."

"Oh," Peter said. "I'm sorry I kept you up so late."

"We kept each other up."

Fred stood to go. Peter stood to show him out. They stood there standing. Then Fred leaned in to Peter and gave him a kiss. Peter wanted it to go on all night. Well, the rest of the night. Well, the rest of the morning, but Og broke away and walked to the door. Peter opened it, then watched Fred all the way to his car, then watched his car all the way to the corner. After some more time, Peter realized it was still very cold out and went back inside. He didn't sleep all night.

And Fred went wee wee wee wee wee all the way home. Well, to the hotel.

(I'm proud of you, Steve. Thanks. Why? You didn't go ick or anything. Why would I? You're not even reading this, are you? Yeah, I am. Baseball. Death Wish. Pot roast. I'm reading it.)

Stella got to the Willow Lane early in order to wait for Titania's arrival. Of course, when she drove up, Titania was already there, standing in front of the building waiting for her. Stella, remembering her admonishment and not wanting it repeated soon, placed a very sincere looking smile on her face before she got out of her car. Titania was wearing one at least as sincere. Looking.

"Good morning, Titania," Stella said. "You're here early."

"I like to be the first one there so I can settle in each day," Titania said and her smile got even more sincere. Looking.

Stella unlocked the place and Titania followed her to the office. The office was still relatively tidy. It had only been a day, of course, since it had been cleaned up. Stella pointed to Peter's old desk and Titania took possession. Complete possession. It only took her sitting in the chair and anyone who entered the room from that moment forward, whether she was there or not, would know instantly it was her desk.

"So the theater had a bad weekend," Titania said.

Stella nodded, ready to pounce if this new bitch said anything even remotely caustic.

"Well," Titania said, "It is a very difficult play, isn't it? For an audience."

Stella was nonplused. Was the caustic bitch actually defending her? This might work out. Unless she was just being passive aggressive. Of course, it was hard for her to determine, people in River Bend were either passive or aggressive, not both. Except Twain. Who was neither.

"What did they expect of you?"

She was defending her. Stella realized she would have to completely reevaluate this entire situation. She needed help desperately. Here was a fairly intelligent woman who seem ready to step in and get things done and was actually defending her. She'd keep her eye out for any intent to take over, of course.

"Do you have plans for after work, today?" Stella asked.

Titania shook her head.

"It's dollar beer night at The Office. That's a local bar. Of course, I usually have wine."

"It sounds good," Titania agreed. "And, yes, beer is so crude, isn't it? And I imagine we both have taste."

Yes, Stella thought. This might work out after all. Her panties tented.

After a surprisingly cordial day of Stella showing Titania the ropes, they found themselves seated at a table in the very noisy bar, drinking Chardonnay. It was probably Chardonnay from a box, but don't tell either one of them that.

"Okay," Stella said suddenly, "I've wanted to know since the last time you were here. What is that cologne? Where did you get it? It's so soft. Smooth. High-end."

Titania smiled and surreptitiously sniffed her wrist, then nodded.

"It's from a little boutique perfumery I happened across. It's called 'Out of Your Price Range'."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Stella was preparing to get her back up if necessary.

"I didn't name it," Titania said with a impertinent shrug. "That's what it's called."

"How could you afford it, then?" Stella set herself for a flip of hair, just in case this were the moment Titania showed her true colors. If her true colors were, indeed, worthy of a good hair flip. Or if they were paisley.

"It was on clearance."

Stella relaxed and quieted her impending pounce, keeping it controlled, but awake, just in case. Titania looked around the place, seeming to focus everywhere at once, a talent that Stella decided she would acquire as quickly as was possible without seeming to be copying Titania in any way. After taking complete stock of the place, Titania looked back at Stella.

"There are a lot," she said, "of very young men here."

Stella explained that the local college was close by so there were usually lots of college kids there, and, what with dollar beer night and all, Tuesdays even more so.

"And aren't you right out of college? How much younger are they than you?"

"It's not the years," Titania said with a glint. "Bet I can get more phone numbers than you."

"I love a challenge," Stella said, although she really, really didn't. She flipped her hair for good measure. In any case, she would probably have gotten a stiff neck if she hadn't at that point. "I wouldn't call them, of course."

"I know, but it's fun," Titania said. "And it gets their hopes up."

Four glasses of wine later, Stella and Titania sat at their table, laughing like old friends, counting slips of paper with phone numbers written on them.

"I only got fourteen," Stella said, more than a little disappointed, "you got twenty."

Titania waved her disappointment away convivially.

"I've played this before. And I'm new meat. And you got fourteen phone numbers! Of college men!"

"Hey, yeah. I got fourteen numbers," Stella said. The wine must have been good, she was surprised to find her basic competitive nature was smiling pleasantly with a soft, rosy glow and didn't give a rat's rump that Titania had sort of completely won the competition. "And a couple of those guys weren't bad. That one guy with the plum-colored cashmere sweater was really... well dressed. Which number was his?"

Titania shrugged and they laughed when they both simultaneously came to the realization that it meant Stella would have to call every number to find out.

"What's the matter?" Dee Dee said to Bear.

They were in bed, Bear looking at the ceiling, distracted. Dee Dee was sitting up looking at him with the sheet wrapped around her chest. Bear glanced over at her briefly, then, in what would have been considered a double-take had it been anyone besides Bear, looked again.

"Why do you do that with the sheet?"

"I don't know," Dee Dee said, looking down at the cloth, "it's what they do on TV."

"I think they do that because they can't show breasts. I've already seen your breasts. You probably wouldn't make a very good mother."

(Steeeeeve! What? One, Dee Dee is at least adequately endowed. Two, even if she weren't, Bear is a gentleman who loves her. And three, go brush your teeth.)

"I've already seen you're breasts. They're at least adequate. (Steve!) Beautiful."

"But they haven't seen them."

"Who?"

"Geoff or Steve."

"Geoff wouldn't care. And they're too small for Steve."

Across town, Andrew and his wife slept contentedly after a passionate night of Chutes and Ladders™ and deep-fried batter-dipped cod©.

Back at Bear's, Dee Dee asked Bear, who was distractedly looking at the ceiling, what was wrong. He wanted to tell her that the next play at the Willow Lane was Dylan about the Welsh poet, and explain to her that the stage for Dylan was very complicated with tons of different sets and that he was hobbled by the fact that Peter wasn't there any longer and Peter was the one who always made sure he had a good supply of hard working volunteers and that the best one of the bunch had been Lee, who really knew his way around a toolbox, and Lee was gone, too, which handicapped him even more, what with the new set he had to get done. He wanted to tell her all that, but knew, somehow, that it would cause an argument because he was with her and thinking about work, so he said, "nothing" instead.

Dee Dee lay back for a moment and stared at the ceiling, then whipped the blankets off, got out of bed and got dressed. Bear was surprised, and really didn't know how to respond. He had been sensitive enough to not bring work up, what did she want from him?

"What are you doing?" he asked after several moments of painful indecision.

"Nothing," she said pointedly, put on her coat, found her purse and keys and left.

"Dee Dee," Bear said lamely after he heard the front door close.

He didn't get any sleep that night.

Andrew and his wife slept very well.

The next morning, with some encouragement from Titania, Stella gathered her slips from the previous night and laid them out on her desk in a neat arc. She picked up the first one, giggled a little, and dialed the number.

"Hi," she said to the guy who answered. "Were you at the Office last night?"

When he said yes, she nodded to Titania.

"What were you wearing?" She asked. "Okay, thanks." She dutifully reported to Titania. "Jeans and a tee shirt."

Four jeans and tee shirts later it was beginning not to be as fun. A couple more and she was about to quit when one guy said he had been wearing black socks. When she pressed he added black oxfords, then, on further prompting, charcoal grey wool slacks and a smooth leather belt.

"He sounds gay," Titania said, and Stella shushed her.

"Sweater!" Stella said, exasperated. "Were you wearing a sweater?"

"Yes. Burgundy-colored cashmere. What's this all about?"

Now that Stella had found her quarry, she had no idea at all what to do with him. Which was odd, because Stella was used to knowing what to do with quarry.

"Ask him out," Titania prompted.

"You gave your number to me last night," Stella said, ignoring the prompt.

"I gave my number to fourteen women, one of them twice. Someone named Titanic. I got sixteen. I still went home alone. Maybe I'm gay."

"I certainly hope not," Stella said.

He assured her he wasn't, that she was a charmingly naive woman for not getting the joke and that he remembered her very well. They set a date to meet that weekend.

"I'm going out with a college student," Stella said when she cradled the phone, not quite sure whether it was something to be proud of or something to be spurned for. Or both.

In the dorm of the River Bend Community College, a young male student in his underpants and tee shirt -- with wine-colored sweater fuzz sticking to it -- strutted down the hall crowing that he had a date with an older woman. Several other male students, wearing jeans and tee shirts, slapped his hand and called him a stud and wondered if they could afford cashmere.

Three volunteers stood at the doorway to the scene shop, fearful. It was cold outside and the stove was burning invitingly, but Bear was uncharacteristically explosive, screaming into the paint spattered phone, stomping around the room as far as the twisted, abused phone cord would let him go, picking up random things that were sitting within his reach and throwing them to well without his reach.

"What do you want from me?" Bear screamed into the phone, and before whoever he was talking to would have had a moment to answer, threw a paint brush and shouted, "Yes, a show opened this weekend. I had to be at the theater! I saw you last night, didn't I?" and then, again, leaving little room for response, threw a bag of persimmon-colored powdered paint pigment and responded, "Yes, last night I was thinking about a set. It's my job! It's a complicated set! There's an airport scene and the wings of a YMHA stage and a burlesque stage and an art museum and a doctor's office. And do you know how many of them have stairways on them? Most of them! And you can't use the same stairway over and over because one is at a boathouse and one is the grand stairway of a southern mansion and one is to the hold of a ship and those kinds of stairways don't look like one another." Then he noticed the volunteers, such as they were, in the doorway. "I'll call you later."

He hung the phone up with as much control as he could muster, which was actually a considerable amount, he was Bear after all, and told them to come in, the heat was escaping. After an hour or so working on the turntable for the Dylan set, watching Bear clean up persimmon paint pigment and sort of muttering to himself, one of them, the one who was more of a spokesman type, said something seemed to be wrong, which of course was obvious to all of them, and that they should let Stella know. After another half hour, during which Bear distressed a board almost down to a very distressed paint stirrer, the spokesman volunteer went to the front office and told Stella and that really, really good looking woman who was sitting at Peter's old desk -- although it didn't look at all like Peter's old desk, now, it looked completely hers -- that Bear had gone crazy and described the shouting and throwing things and mumbling and overly distressing of the board, embellished the description a little by adding puffs of sawdust swirling up with every stomp and out with every pronouncement. He was, after all, in theater.

Stella slumped. Titania asked, as calmly as possible, if they were talking about that gentle guy in the scene shop, the technical director, the one with all the sawdust on his moustache? Him? She asked if it were normal for him to go crazy and throw things and such, that, although he was extremely masculine in an odd, slightly built, hairy, balding sort of way, she would never have guessed.

"No," Stella said, "He's usually very calm. Sometimes he can be a little sarcastic, especially if you're dating him or you've dated him in the past, but no, this isn't normal behavior. Unless... "

"... Unless?"

"He's dating Dee Dee again. No. He's too smart for that."

"Um," the spokesman volunteer said, "actually, he is. Where have you been? She's even come to the plays and everything. Everyone knows he's dating Dee Dee again."

Stella slumped a little more. How the hell was she to keep up on everything now that Peter was gone?

"You used to date him, didn't you?" Titania asked, and when Stella nodded weakly, said, "I'll go see what I can do."

"Thanks," Stella said and picked up a ledger book as if nothing else in the universe was wrong.

About an hour later Titania came back to the office, sat down and started organizing papers.

"Well?" Stella said, trying as hard as possible to sound nonchalant.

"Oh, I calmed him down. It seems Dee Dee wants to spend more time with him than he has, and isn't willing to drive to River Bend more often than he's willing to drive to be with her. I got him to call her up and promise to drive over there tonight to even things out. No big deal. The shop is buzzing productively."

Stella was impressed, although she would never say so.

As the weeks progressed, Peter seemed to be floating, but doing it very productively. He and Lee sat down and created a schedule for the completion of the theater, the rehearsal and opening of the first play. He arranged with Samuel French, Inc. Play Publishers for the rights to produce Stevie by Hugh Whitemore about the life of British poetess Stevie Smith. He designed an audition notice and started interviewing staff for the restaurant. The stage took shape, as did the whole dining room.

It felt, for the first time, as if the Renaissance were a log, unstoppably sliding down a greased flume and Lee liked it a lot, even if he did constantly fear he had made a horrible, horrible mistake and was wasting a lot of very usable money on a very illogical whim. Lee also felt conflicted about what seemed to be one source of the swift progression. Peter. Was. Happy. Which was good by itself, except that he was happy because he was in love. And, being in love, told Lee every detail of his long courtship with Fred Ogg, which he'd then have to dutifully relate to Abby because, if he didn't, she'd obsess about his adverse reaction to Beverly's pregnancy and the rat dog. Lee mentally covered his ears a lot, of course, internally making sounds like a British police car while diplomatically nodding in all the appropriate places, even though it seemed Peter and Og hadn't actually done much besides talk all night, either on the phone or at Peter's place. Fred even showed up a few more times to help at the Renaissance and on those days, and the days right after them, Peter floated even more.

Abby kept asking if they'd done it, yet, and Lee was getting to the point where he actually hoped they'd just fuck and get it over with. Except then, of course, Peter would have to tell him about it and he'd really have to cover his ears and make oscillating siren noises. Forever.

One day, Peter was on the phone looking again for used sound and lighting equipment, when the front door opened and Bear came in. He looked like hell, but politely accepted a grand tour. When, a few moments later, the tour was done, Lee invited him to sit and Peter joined them at one of the new dining tables.

"So does anyone at the Willow Lane know you're here?" Lee asked. He didn't want his friend to get into trouble, but was very gratified that Bear had ignored all that possibility of censure just to come by and say hello. To him.

Bear just shrugged. "I didn't tell them," he said.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked, which made Lee realize he should at least look concerned. Bear did sort of look more drawn than usual.

"The Dodgers moved out of Brooklyn, that's what's wrong."

Lee, Peter and Steve all nodded in agreement and there was a moment of reverent silence. Then, when Geoff had lost most of his patience, Bear said, "Nothing. What should be wrong?"

"Well, nothing, I guess" Peter said, "I just wanted to add a lot of filler because there hasn't been an installment for over a year and we're only at, what, four thousand words or something and our readers expect so much more."

"All three of them," Lee added.

"One's my mom," Steve chimed in.

"And one is pregnant," Geoff reminded them.

"Nothing's wrong," Bear said. "Really. Oh, they finally hired someone to replace you. Lady named Titania. She's nice, I guess. A little full of herself, maybe."

"Oh," Peter said. Then, to change the subject, said, "how's Dee Dee?"

Bear's face got a little ruddier.

"Oh," said Peter.

"We're doing Stevie," Lee said, sure that a complete break in the mood was what was needed.

"One set," Bear said wistfully and quietly wished he'd also left the Willow Lane like Peter had, except he was sure the Renaissance couldn't afford to actually pay a technical director, which is why they chose a play with only one set, damn them. "By the way," he added, brushing a stray bit of beet-colored paint powder from his mustache and another from the tuft of hair peeking over the top of his tee shirt which was peeking over the top button of his flannel shirt, "a friend of mine called and asked if I could use some old sound and lighting equipment. Seems the board of directors of his theater decided to remodel and upgrade and he wants to unload them cheap. Could you use them?"

They could, of course, and Bear gave them the guy's name and phone number. Lee was grateful for this new bit of luck. Peter was concerned for Bear. And, he was surprised to find, for Stella, what with the Willow Lane having such a hard time and having to break in a new person, a woman, which Stella couldn't be enjoying. He was also grateful for the lead on the equipment, of course, he wasn't totally insensitive.

The phone rang and Peter got up to answer it.

"Willow La... Uh... Renaissance Dinner Theater, how can we help you?"

"Peter, it's Roz. Where have you been?"

"I... huh? Why?" Peter was instantly alert. He had more than the normal sense of responsibility and when he found he had missed some obligation or forgotten some promise, his whole body punished him with fluttering, unfocused cascades of very unpleasant energy until he could make amends. And usually for several days after amends had been made. "Am I supposed to be somewhere?"

"You haven't been by for a couple of weeks. Don't you care that we're having a baby together?"

Peter was about to fumble all over his mouth saying she'd told him to stay away, that she could take care of herself and all that hurtful stuff she'd said to him that he was dutifully honoring, but some stray thought hit him in the cranium and reminded him that the woman was pregnant and that it had read somewhere that pregnant women were often at the mercy of their hormones. He didn't know how to respond to a woman being controlled by nature's straight jacket so he just sputtered a little, then dove in.

"I... could... bring by some... soup? Tomorrow? Maybe?"

She started to cry. The thought of Roz crying went against his entire understanding of how the universe was supposed to work, so he went back to sputtering.

"I thought gay men were supposed to be so sensitive," she sobbed. Then the sobs shifted a little and a small laugh joined them. "I... guess... I'm a little hormonal, huh?"

"Um... Yes?"

"It's okay. I won't kill you. You fucker. But you can bring me something tomorrow if you want to. As long as you don't do it the next day, too. Don't be coming by every day. I can take care of myself."

Peter started building a menu.

"Do you like Babi Asam Pedis?" he asked and she started crying again.

The evening wasn't as cold as it had been and Twain's was fairly busy for dinner. Matt was sweating by the time the crowd started to thin. He was making change for a family of geese (that's not even funny, Steve. It's a gaggle. Is it five o'clock, yet?) midgets (Steve!) four when the front door opened and Agnes Livingstone came in. Before Matt could tell her he'd be right there, Twain came out with a menu and ushered her to a booth. When she took off her fur coat and sat, a couple at the next booth got up and moved further away from her. Normally, Matt would have thought all that was very odd, but he was tired and still very confused and not much seemed odd to him lately. He bussed a table.

After Twain took Agnes's order, then served her nicoise salad with seared ahi tuna, he went to the little platform, moved the microphone out and stood behind it. He cleared his throat, then cleared it again. The patrons all stopped to listen.

"Mixed metaphors," he said. "Like a well-stirred drink, like a small kid bleating for his mother's teat. And the wolf answered. At long last, ma'am, the congressman said, have you no sense of time? A train pulled out of a station. Snow fell. Dinner was late that night."

He stepped down to a smattering of applause. (What's a smattering? Nothing, what's a smattering with you? That's really lame. Fine, you come up with something better. The past tense of smatter. What's smatter? Nothing, what's smatter with you?)

Publisher's Note: The editor just quit.

Agnes, feeling vaguely disquieted, paid and left. If Matt had been more observant, or, perhaps, less distracted by life, he would have wondered why Twain seemed to be gossiping with the patrons more than usual that night. If he had been really observant, he would have realized that more than usual was at all.

The next day, Matt leaned against his locker with one foot up, his hands thrust into his pockets, staring at the floor. He was getting better at brooding and his fellow students cut a respectfully distant arc around him, admiring his new cache and wondering what they could do to get some of it. A few even wondered if he were a new kid from the city and if he smoked. He looked like he should smoke. Brooding kids usually did. Jan wasn't buying any of it. As soon as she saw him, she marched so purposefully toward him she effortlessly cut through the throngs without thought.

"You said you didn't kiss another girl!" she demanded of him.

His cool brooding melted instantly and the other kids shook their heads in disappointment. Another poser, they thought collectively.

"I didn't!" Matt blurted in a decidedly uncool way.

"You touched someone's boob!"

"I... How... Who..." Matt blurted. "Who told you that?"

"My mother said I can't talk to you anymore. Whose breast did you touch? An older girl? A senior?"

"No," Matt said, his defenses completely destroyed. "She doesn't go to our school."

"You did touch a boob!" Jan said, really hurt, and stormed away.

Matt wanted to cry, so he opened his locker and stuck his head into it, but it smelled like old gym shoes in an English kitchen, so he just went to class.

Saturday night, Stella parked by a telephone pole in front of the dorm, which was an institutional three story brick building with absolutely no ivy on the walls. There were three concrete steps with piping for hand rails on both sides, that led to the front door, which had a hand-painted banner made with butcher paper hanging slightly askew above it announcing a biology department science fair. She was only slightly miffed that her good looking, masculine smelling, cashmere wearing college student didn't have a car, but was willing to get past it. He was a college student, after all. Being on campus made her feel young again. She smiled brightly, got out of the car and bounded up the steps, feeling strangely right in place. A bright young couple passed her and the fellow opened the door for her.

"Thanks," she said.

"No problem, ma'am," he said, and the hateful couple blithely disappeared down the hall.

Suddenly, Stella noticed a dull aching in her knees and her fingers stiffened slightly and bent in odd ways. She almost turned to leave, but saw her date leaning against the wall of the lobby, one foot up, his hands thrust into his pockets, staring at the floor, brooding in the most alluring way, wearing a deep green cashmere sweater and walnut slacks with the creases ironed just so. He looked stalwart. Like a tree. Stella liked trees. She went inside. When he didn't look up right away, she cleared her throat. He looked up. When he saw her, he smiled and for a moment the entire world, including rude door openers, faded away and only the two of them existed.

As they drifted down the steps, several of the other young, male college students watched the good fortune of their classmate and shook their heads in united admiration.

Stella noticed, on the telephone pole she'd parked by, a notice stapled to it, a piece of antique card stock, beautifully designed with simple, elegant lettering, announcing open auditions. For a play. At the Renaissance Dinner Theater. It was perfect and inviting and right in just the way that the photocopied programs that first week of End of the World had not been.

"Peter!" she shouted.

The tree jumped and wondered what he had gotten himself into.

Abby sat on Lee's couch while Lee puttered in the basement, banging and making strange mechanical noises. Her sweat shirt was dark blue and had a beautiful print of an old woodcut, a field mouse in the snow, rendered in sepia. It also had an extra sleeve hanging from the left shoulder. A red one. Under the picture it said, "The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft agley". There was a loud thumping from the basement.

"What are you doing down there?" Abby called down, amazed at how men could find the strangest ways to occupy themselves.

"Playing jai alai," Lee answered, then hammered on something.

Abby got up and stood at the top of the stairs. Gable was still leaving scratch marks on the basement door and Lee had long since stopped trying to repair them. The noises from below her had a happy energy.

"Don't you get enough of building at the Renaissance?"

"There, I do it to get stuff done," Lee said. "Here, I do it to unwind." It made sense to Lee. He wondered why it wouldn't make sense to her. What he was doing was building a bird house, but it didn't actually really matter what he was building as long as there was drilling and sawing and hammering involved, which there would have to be with a birdhouse. He could put it up in the back yard in the spring. Or not. It didn't actually matter, once the thing was built.

"What are you unwinding from?" Abby asked as she started down the steps to join him.

"Building stuff," Lee said and Abby laughed.

Abby found an old, wooden folding chair and sat to watch him unwind. It was actually kind of inspiring. Lee looked at her and smiled. He had sawdust on his nose. It made him look like Bear a little, which was disconcerting. There was a knock at the front door.

"Are you expecting someone?" Lee asked.

"It's your house, Silly."

Lee went upstairs and opened the front door.

There stood a woman in her mid thirties wearing a tasteful designer winter coat, twirling a strand of her reddish-brown hair in her fingers, her face aglow with a beatific countenance. A glow that someone with child might bear. Or someone who had recently had really good fudge. She was holding a small metal cage in which shivered a small, horrid rat dog in a red knit sweater.

"Beverly!" Lee shouted.