EDWARD BRYANT

FLIRTING WITH DEATH

Linda picked up the plastic vial again, turned it over and over in her hand,
listening to the silence. She'd packed the container too full of capsules for
there to be any rattle. That effect pleased her. Again she read the cautions on
the label. Linda twisted the child-proof cap until both arrows lined up, tried
to thumb the cap off, broke her nail instead. She set the vial down beside the
sink a little too hard and rubbed the ragged rim of nail against her index
finger. Linda started to reach for the emery board in the zippered case by the
sink, then hesitated. Why bother?

If she was going to die, it didn't really matter if she looked perfect, though
she suddenly remembered her mother's long-ago admonitions about clean slipped
between compressed lips sounded more to her own ears like a whimper.

And if she didn't die, there was no one to impress, so why bother? She
remembered her mother's strong opinions again. Her mother had desired her to
meet and marry a doctor. Linda didn't know at this point whether she wanted to
laugh or to cry.

She gave the vial an impatient tap on the faux marble. The cap popped free and
red capsules pattered across the sink. Several bounced off the toilet ring and
into the electric blue water. Linda thought she could see them start immediately
to expand like the gel-packed sponge dinosaurs she had once bought for her
nephew's seventh birthday.

This was sordid. It took away even more from the mood, and her sense of resolve.
Resignedly, she got down on her knees and picked up every capsule she could
find. In the comer, three robust ants tried to make off with one of the
capsules. She shook them free and scooted the trio toward the baseboard with a
piece of Kleenex. Maybe they were depressed too. She thought about mutual pacts,
this time couldn't stop herself from giggling, looked for the rest of the
capsules. The ants wandered away into the corner. Linda flushed the toilet. The
dry capsules went back into the vial and she replaced the cap with a positive
click.

Another time, perhaps. She had enough capsules, even without the ones that had
swirled down the toilet. If she were patient, she could even wait until the
prescription was again refilled. She knew full well her doctor would do that.

But in the meantime . . .

Linda walked tiredly into the living room, flipped on the radio by the faded
couch, heard the first notes of a love song she particularly hated, twisted the
dial looking for a heavy metal station. Or rap. Or even country. She found none
of those among the intermittent cascades of static. All that seemed to be on the
air tonight were easy-listening stations with mushy ballads. She aimed the TV
remote. Like Water for Chocolate was on HBO. Encore had Zeffirelli's Romeo and
Juliet. And so it went. Love Story on TBS. She slapped the remote. The TV image
dwindled into a dot and then vanished all too slowly.

If this was a message from God, it was a grotesque one.

And if it was divine punishment for even mulling the thought of suicide, then
God was even more of a thug than Mark Twain had mocked.

Linda slipped a Nick Cave album into the CD player, cranked the volume only on
the headphones out of deference to her downstairs neighbors, and lay back
against the couch pillows. * * *

-- and woke as she felt the bullet, rising toward her on a hot cushion of flame,
starting to push toward the softest part of her eye, the membrane distending,
the optic nerve shrieking, the pain and the sound rising to a crescendo. Linda
blinked furiously, rubbed her eye, only half-noted the staccato reflections of
rotating emergency lights crossing the faded rose plaster of her bedroom walls.
An ambulance, she realized, orienting herself, the wail of a siren diminishing
in the distance. She wondered who had died?

Certainly not her. Maybe no one.

She sat up, swinging her legs off the side of the bed, wincing at the sharp pain
by the base of her skull. She must have slept completely wrong the crick in her
neck was evidence of that. Linda realized she didn't recall moving from the
couch to her bedroom. Now her whole head was aching. The vial waited in the
bathroom.

But when she went into the harsh fluorescent light of the lavatory, she let the
faucet run for a whole minute, then used half a glass of the tepid water to wash
down three aspirin.

In the living room she looked at the clock on the VCR. Half past nine. She had a
long, long time until morning, and she didn't want to spend all those hours
dreaming. That's why she put on a light cotton top, her denim skirt, and decided
to take a walk. It was an atypically hot early October night and this early
there should be plenty of people on the streets.

Although, whispered a small voice, maybe the darkness would hold a truly
unexpected surprise. Perhaps a car would suddenly jump the curb, a wall would
collapse, a hideously off-course airliner would try to use her street as an
emergency landing strip. Maybe a man with a knife or a pistol would step from a
dark alley. "Are you talking yourself out of this, or into it?" she muttered to
herself.

Linda took her keys and a twenty dollar bill. She hesitated, then took the
half-empty pack of Marlboros and a book of matches. When she swung open the door
to leave, Mr. Claws screamed from the railing outside and bounded into her
apartment.

She turned and headed for the kitchen, knowing exactly what Mr. Claws wanted.
Mr. Claws was an alley scrapper, a bulky gray cat getting a little long in the
fang. Linda had taken him to a vet the month before when it looked like the
cat's left eye was well on the way to liquefying and dropping from its socket.
The vet prescribed antibiotics and showed Linda how to clean the eye with a
cotton ball and a solution of boric acid. Mr. Claws had recovered just fine.
Both eyes seemed to work now, following squirrels and birds with endless
patience when Linda watched him stalking,

Now he padded around the kitchen, grumbling and hissing, waiting for Linda to
open a can. "Pressed chicken okay, Mr. Claws?" She took the package from the
refrigerator, extracted a slice, then knelt to feed him. The big gray grabbed
the meat from her fingers and shook his head as if trying to snap a mouse's
neck. Linda touched the lumpy top of his head. Mr. Claws growled with the
chicken still in his mouth and tried to take a swipe at her hand. "Living up to
your name, kitty," said Linda, quickly withdrawing her fingers. "I'll leave the
rest of the chicken in your dish. Suit you?"

She stood and rinsed her fingers in the sink. Mr. Claws happily attacked his
evening treat. "Just have a good meal," said Linda. "I'll be back before you
know it. This time use the litter box." She had reason to believe the cat was
box-trained, though he sometimes used the Navajo rug in her living room just to
be obnoxious.

From the doorway, she said, "You can earn your way tonight." The cat ignored
her. "I'd really like it if you'll stay and sleep with me." The cat still didn't
look up from his pressed chicken.

Propositioning a stray cat, she thought. Now that's pitiful. She left the
apartment, locking the deadbolt behind her. As she descended the open stairwell,
she realized it really was comforting tonight knowing there was something --
someone -- to come home to. Even if it was a flagrantly unfaithful big gray eat.

Linda's apartment building was only half a block from Paradise Avenue, and the
most immediate mile of Paradise held at least two dozen favored destinations for
nighttime wanderers. She strode briskly, passing bars and music clubs, a twin
cinema besieged with lines waiting for the final round of evening shows, and
neon-bright restaurants.

At the corner of 18th Street, a red convertible stopped for the light. One among
the four boys in the car yelled something at her. Another of the kids whistled.

Linda hadn't been able to decipher what the one boy had called out, so she gave
him the benefit of a doubt. "I'm as old as your mother," she said back.

The boy grinned. "You don't look like her."

Linda found it hard not to smile back. The light changed as she stepped into the
crosswalk and she quickened her pace.

"Last chance," called the boy.

Probably, she thought, stepping onto the opposite curb. My last chance. No
doubt. She let the words cool in her mind. The convertible roared away, trailing
the squeal of rubber and a chime of laughter.

The next block was less populated by passersby and even less well-lit. There was
a movie rental store called Wings Video. She wondered if they carried copies of
Looking for Mr. Goodbar. Just why am I out here? Linda thought. Just going for a
walk. Just clearing her head. Not looking for anything. Not looking for anyone.

Linda knew she was coming up on a club called High Beam. The next block would be
busier. She was paying attention to her surroundings, but still was surprised
when a man's voice came out of the darkened alley beside High Beam.

"Linda?" She heard the baritone, knew it was male. Broke her stride, startled.
Hesitated, knowing even as she peered into the darkness she should be sprinting
for light and other people. Safety. "It is you, isn't it, Linda?" The man
stepped forward and his shape resolved in the light on the sidewalk.

She involuntarily took a step back. He didn't look familiar. He was taller than
she, though most men were. Maybe six feet. She took in the shaggy collar-length
hair, blond streaked with something darker. He smiled and there was a white
glistening of teeth. His eyes were dark; that's all she could tell.

"Yes?" she said. "Do I know you?"

"We know each other," he said. "We've had some long conversations."

She instantly thought back over every crank call she'd ever gotten. Most of them
were hang-ups. She never allowed obscene callers to hang on the line. She
refused to feed their hunger.

"I think you're mistaken," she said uncertainly. "We don't know each other. But
how do you know my name?"

The man stepped farther into the light. Linda took another step back to
compensate. She believed she knew something about body language; this man seemed
to offer no threat.

"Linda's a lovely name," he said. She could see his lips curve in a smile. "You
know the Spanish meaning? Beautiful."

"I think it's more like just 'pretty,'" she found herself saying.

The man shook his head emphatically. "Beautiful," he repeated. His smile
widened. "Do you know the old High German?"

She shook her head.

"Over there it means serpent. No connotation of something ugly or scaly. Mythic.
The suggestion is one of strength, flexibility, power."

She watched him closely, waiting to see if he was going to turn into some sort
of berserk maniac.

"You're wondering if I'm some sort of serial killer," said the man.

Linda didn't shake her head. The thought had occurred to her, though she knew
rationally that he was probably just an articulate drunk, or perhaps one of the
slightly deranged street people who mixed among the upscale tourists on Paradise
Avenue. He wore jeans with no visibly worn patches or holes. His western shirt
looked pressed. His black leather jacket didn't appear scuffed, and held no
adornment other than a moth-shaped pin on the collar. Then she thought, who
knows what one looks like? He could be a serial killer. He could have
slaughtered hundreds. How do you tell, save by weighing deeds?

"Well maybe I am," he said. "But I'm off-duty for a while. My name is Todd." He
extended his hand.

She took it tentatively at first. His hand was much larger than hers, but his
grip was firm and warm without being intimidating. She admitted surprise to
herself that he didn't offer either the crushing grip or the sensitively limp
gesture she was accustomed to from men. There was heat in his hand, and it
seemed to flow like a live electric current into her own fingers. She was aware,
as she withdrew her hand, that their touching had lasted perhaps a second longer
than it should. By whose standards? the rebellious little voice in her head
said, and then laughed softly. She ordinarily gauged these things by what felt
right. This most assuredly had, and that surprised her.

"I bewilder you," Todd said, half a question, half a statement. "All those
questions in your head will get answers." He cocked his head to one side,
looking down at her, into her eyes. The shadows were too dark; she still
couldn't tell what color his eyes were. "In the meantime, I'm going to ask you
out for a drink. And how about going dancing later?"

"I don't dance," she said automatically.

He laughed. "Don't? Not can't? I don't think you've been dancing in a while, but
I'll bet you could if you decided that was what you wanted."

"Not in a while," Linda conceded. "I can."

"Then you should." Todd turned and gestured down Paradise. "Let's just see what
happens."

Linda felt a pang of caution as she looked at the darkness pooling farther down
the block. "Maybe we should try High Beam."

"My thought exactly," said the man. Linda wondered how old he really was. He
looked about Linda's age. Forty. Perhaps a little older. Maybe a little younger.
It was hard to tell.

"You've got nice hair," he said suddenly.

She involuntarily reached back, touching her hair with the fingers of her right
hand. "It's got snow in it," she heard herself saying. Her mother had said that
same thing about her own hair when the glossy black had so quickly started to
gray.

"Such tension," Todd said. "The contrast, the lightness playing against the
dark, that's exciting." He sounded serious.

"Smooth talker," said Linda. "You use that line on all of us?"

"Actually, no." Todd sounded even more serious. "Usually I need say nothing at
all."

She looked at him appraisingly. "Pretty self-confident, aren't you?"

He smiled back at her; ingenuous, she thought. "A drink?" he said. "A dance?"

"A deal," Linda said, wondering momentarily why she was saying this, but knowing
on another level why. "A drink. And maybe, maybe a dance."

Just inside High Beam, a doorman didn't ask for a cover charge, but he did check
Linda's driver's license.

"Charming," she said. She couldn't remember the last time that had happened.

High Beam was an old dance club apparently now fallen on difficult times. The
first thing Linda thought as Todd and she walked into the cavernous interior
was, maybe they should rename it Low Beam? It hadn't looked this big from the
outside. The dance floor stretched back farther than she could accurately gauge
in the darkness. It looked as though the walls had once been thickly populated
with neon decor. Now only the occasional tube flickered and buzzed fitfully.
There were more purples than anything else, abstract shapes, a few red forms
that could have been flames or perhaps the teeth of a saw, part of a green palm
thatch, the crest of a bright blue wave. In all the comers at ceiling level,
pairs of spotlights swept back and forth in tandem, like headlights rounding a
turn. A fog generator coughed out a mist that softened the headlight glare,
giving momentary form to the high beam probe.

Most of the nearby light seemed to come from a huge and elaborate CD jukebox in
the near comer. A myriad of lights, red, blue, white, chased themselves along
all the hard chromed edges of the machine. Music boomed from speakers mounted
around the dance floor.

Linda found her body already beginning to yield treacherously to the beat of the
music. She swayed with the fierce chords. The up-tempo rocker made the thick,
smoky air vibrate. She took a deep breath. "Who is this?" She had to speak close
to Todd's ear.

He shrugged. "I think it's a group called Manichee." At least that's what she
thought she heard him say.

Something suddenly snapped into focus as she stared over to the left, at the
neon-limned bar and the stools spaced in front of it. The Manichee piece ended
in a minor-key crescendo and the echoes diminished and were gone.

"There's no one here," said Linda.

Todd followed her stare. "That would seem to be the case."

"I wouldn't even expect us to be the only customers," she said, still looking at
the deserted bar. "No one would leave all that untended." Linda gestured toward
the glittering rows of bottles.

"'Probably just getting some re-stock out of the storeroom," said Todd.

"This is strange." Linda suddenly felt as though she didn't want to get any
closer to the bar. She turned. "Where's the doorman?"

"Maybe," said Todd, "he's a psychopath. And the people who were here are all
lying on the floor back in the storeroom. All tied up."

"I really don't want to walk into a robbery." A chili raced along Linda's neck.

"Maybe not just a robbery." Todd looked serious. "Perhaps they're all back there
in the storeroom on their bellies on the floor with some guy putting a bullet
through the back of each of their heads."

Linda clapped a hand to her mouth, forced herself to take it away. She steadied
herself. "Not funny," she said.

"No," he said. "It's not."

"We've got a choice," said Linda. "We could call the police, or we can get out
of here."

"Or we can dance." Todd touched her shoulder lightly. She could feel the heat of
his fingers again.

It was a challenge, she realized. A test of nerve.

He stepped closer to her and said, "The people really are back somewhere getting
stock. Or maybe taking stock. Or getting laid. I'm sure of it. I don't think
this place has much of a clientele, even on the best of nights. They're
perfectly safe. So are we." He took his hand away from her shoulder. "Now.
Music. What would you like to hear?"

"What I'd like and what this fancy machine can play are probably a few miles
apart."

The song started then, and the opening chords rocked her back on her heels.
"I'll be damned," she said, sure Todd couldn't hear her now. The volume lowered
a notch or two.

"Is this something you can live with?" said Todd.

It was, in fact, the song she'd been thinking of. Not by the King, true; and a
slightly slower tempo than she was used to, but still a beautiful rendition.
Hoyt Axton's mommy's big hit, sung by an unknown voice that sent shivers through
her abdomen.

Since my baby left me . . . She could sing right along with the words. The song
was "Heartbreak Hotel."

He took her hands in his. "Let's dance . . ."

They did, and he was very good. And after the first chorus of "Heartbreak
Hotel," so was she. It wasn't the dancing she had to reaccustom herself to. It
was holding a partner in her arms. She felt strangely shy. That feeling went
away quickly. Linda found herself not so decorously distant from Todd. It felt
like a gravitational thing. They moved around the dance floor together,
gradually closer. She wasn't aware of the process so much as she realized, when
the song ended, that they were now very close indeed.

The next song was another familiar tune with an unfamiliar arrangement; this
time, bluesy, smoky. "Give me a break," she said.

He looked down at her. "Pardon?"

Linda said, "The jukebox is playing 'Lonely Women Make Good Lovers.'"

"You like the country version better?"

"That's not the point," said Linda. "It's a great dance tune. It's also an
article of faith for cracker bubbas on the make in every sleazy dive."

"Are you saying it's sexist?" said Todd, drawing her very close now, so that her
head tucked up close to his chin.

She nodded. "That's about it."

He nodded too, slowly. "I'm a great student of country," Todd said. "I'm a great
student of most things," he added modestly, cutting the effect with a smile
Linda could feel against her temple. His lips moved like silk. His voice was a
little muffled. He moved his mouth away just enough to articulate. "Lonely women
are a cliche. But so are lonely men. And I'd rather deal with lonely women any
day."

"I'm sure," said Linda.

"No, really. Guys have their own cliche. Lonely men whimper and bitch a lot more
than women. Women ignore it or do what they have to do to get through it. Men
start acting like babies, yapping and whining and carrying on like there's
nobody's business except their own."

Linda felt the warmth of his right hand against the small of her back. Felt the
heat of his palm and fingers move a little to the side, resting on the curve of
her hip, then back to the center. "Are you some kind of therapist ?" she said.

"Nope," said Todd.

"Then what are you?"

"I told you before."

She had to think for a few seconds. It was easier now not to think, but just to
dance and move as though the music was never going to end. "The . . ." She
wasn't sure if she should be keeping her voice light. "The serial killer thing."
He nodded, jaw seeming to generate a static charge as it rubbed against her
hair. "You weren't kidding," she said.

"I said I was off-duty," said Todd. "You can trust me on that."

She knew she could trust him. She also knew she could bring her knee up into his
groin, put stiffened fingers into his throat, run for the door, risk hearing his
tortured breath and stumbling footsteps behind her. Linda made her decision
without really thinking about it. She remembered a time once when she had made
certain decisions based on feeling -- no, more on other intangibles that rarely
played her false. This time, after a very long time of ignoring the issue, Linda
opted for trust.

"Okay," she said. "Now what do you want to do?"

"I'd like us to go back to your apartment," said Todd. "I'd like to see your
cat."

"You know entirely too much," said Linda. "Are you a detective too?"

"I just know a lot." The music ended. He gave her a hug, drew away, spread his
hands. "You know?"

"No," she said. "I don't know. This is stupid. I'm going to hate myself in the
morning." If I'm alive in the morning, she said silently.

"I don't think you'll hate yourself." Todd sounded serious. "I'm pretty sure of
it."

"I don't take strange men home from bars," she said.

"I know that," said Todd.

"I don't go to bed with people I barely know," she said. Did I actually say
that? she said to herself.

"I know that," said Todd.

"I'm not easy," she said aloud. I'm not, she repeated silently.

"I know that."

"I'm not going to do anything with you."

"I know that." His face was close to hers.

"But you can come up for some coffee."

Todd smiled with what looked to Linda like innocent pleasure. Sure, she thought.
He's very, very good. And then she wondered, who was being the most truthful in
this strange interchange?

"I don't do floors and windows," she said.

"I know that too." He reached for her hand, drew her gently but firmly toward
the door of the High Beam. She noticed that the doorman still was not in
evidence. She hadn't seen him since they'd entered the club.

"Is there anything at all you don't know?" Linda said.

For the first time, she detected a touch of something taut in his voice.
Fatigue? Or perhaps it was something like wistfulness. "There are things," he
said. "And wondering about them keeps me from going. . .stir-crazy with
boredom."

She squeezed his fingers.

"And not just things," Todd said. "People, sometimes. You."

They left the High Beam. She sensed the headlights snapping out. Behind them,
she heard the jukebox start to belt out a polka version of "Are You Lonesome
Tonight?" * * *

Paradise Avenue was deserted.

"Where is everybody?" said Linda. She had never seen the street completely
without pedestrians.

"Back at the club," said Todd. "That storeroom where everybody's lying on their
bellies? It's big."

"You're sick," she said.

He nodded.

They walked a while in silence. "Do you live around here?" Linda said.

"Just visiting," said Todd.

"Be here for long?"

"I've only got so much energy," he said. "And only so much time."

She said, "I guess you're being honest."

He nodded. "I am."

They got to her street. Linda took his arm and turned him away from the avenue.
As they walked beneath the canopies of oak and elm just starting to turn with
the autumn, Todd said, "I find this very beautiful."

"It's my favorite season." Linda wanted this part of the walk home to last
forever. She knew exactly how many steps there were between the warm pools of
light from the old streetlamps. A breeze started to rise, rattling the leaves
overhead like dry bones.

"We've something in common," said Todd. "The fall's my favorite too."

"Is that all we've got in common?" She regretted the words as they were leaving
her lips. She hated sounding fatuous. Especially she hated sounding shallow.

He seemed to take the question seriously. "There is more," he said. He didn't
elaborate. She didn't press.

Another two pools of light, the quality of illumination seeming to flicker as
wind-tossed branches swept in front of the electric lights. Linda shivered in
the rising wind. Todd took off his leather jacket and draped it around her
shoulders.

"We're almost there," she said. "Thanks."

And then they were there, and climbing the outside steps to the second floor
landing. Even with Todd's jacket around her, Linda shivered as she keyed the
deadbolt, then turned the other key in the latch.

Inside, she luxuriated for a moment in the warmth. She shrugged off the leather
jacket and reached for the light switch. Then she felt Todd's fingers lightly on
her wrist. He stood behind her, took the jacket from her left hand. Linda heard
leather sigh to the floor.

"The light is for later," said Todd.

"And the coffee?"

"For later," he said.

Linda suddenly wished she had taken time to file her broken nail. She knew he
was standing close, close behind her. The warmth on the back of her head was his
breath. It smelled a bit like cloves and orange peel. The small hairs on the
back of her neck prickled, the graying hair above seemed to crackle with
electricity. He could not be closer without touching.

Linda felt his hands alight on her shoulders, fingers cupping those shoulders,
two spots of radiant heat. She knew she was acting now without thinking as she
leaned back against him, adjusting her body to accommodate his. Her hips touched
his thighs; she felt the length of his legs against the backs of hers. The top
of her head tucked beneath his chin. Her back relaxed.

"My shoulder blades are sharp," she said.

"I like them that way," Todd said, his voice huskier than it had been.

"Is that a kind of serial killer thing?" Linda wasn't sure whether she said that
aloud or not. But she did know she was smiling. And when Todd took his right
hand from her shoulder and let his fingers caress the line of her jaw and then
brush across her lips, she gently took one finger into her mouth.

They stood like that a long, long while as the room seemed to get warmer. Linda
felt his breath move down the back of her head to her neck, felt Todd's mouth
lightly touch the nape of her neck, felt the quick, hot dart of tongue against
her skin.

She thought she cried out. At first just a little, and later, quite a lot. His
left arm encircled her front, his hand cupping her right breast without quite
touching it.

"Tease," she said, from around his finger. Linda reached up and pushed the hand
against her breast.

"Oh, no," he said. "I wouldn't want you to think I'm a tease."

"Then don't be." She felt his fingers slide between the buttons of her top. She
wondered if he was as surprised as she how hard her nipple had become. And how
sensitive.

"I don't do this."

Todd smiled against her hair.

That was the last silly thing she remembered saying.

There were some things she did remember.

Linda remembered when they first were there in her big comfortable bed, the bed
in which two people had never slept together. The bed which she had bought after
Jack died. She handed Todd the small packet which he took, then lifted up to
examine in the candlelight.

"It's old," she said apologetically. "I never expected an occasion to use it."

He began laughing. "I'm safer than you can imagine," he said.

Linda said, "Indulge me."

But what she remembered most were the memories that came back later, a kind of
overlay of the past on the present, though the past was so long ago, Linda
thought she had buried it thoroughly.

The memories started to flood back with every single thing Todd did to her.

And when she climaxed, letting the heat and sheer sensation claim her as she had
not experienced in nearly two decades, Linda began to cry. Todd held her,
touching her hair and her skin, comforting her when she wanted comfort, giving
her silence when she craved a temporary wall o[ privacy, while she felt the
tears well from her eyes and leave trails of salt across her lips.

"I don't do this," she finally said in a low voice. I don't come and I don't
cry, not like this, she said inside her head.

"I know that," he said, and this time she knew he really did, though she
honestly did not know how he could have come by that knowledge.

So she asked him.

And after he held her for a long, long time even tighter and closer, and after
he kissed her a few more times, he told her. After a fashion.

"You asked how I knew you," said Todd. "Back at the beginning, on the street by
the club."

"You said we'd talked."

He was sitting up now, back against the headboard, knees drawn up. "And I told
the truth." Linda leaned against him, wrapped her arms around his knees. "Do you
have some idea of our meeting?"

She nodded. "I'm not stupid."

"But you have been --" He seemed to fumble for words. "You've been frozen. In a
kind of prison cell."

"I had to protect myself," she said. "Thanks to you."

Todd looked away. "I can't be ashamed. And I feel no guilt. I'm not here because
I think I owe you. I'm not," he said, voice rising. She reached and touched his
face. He seemed to relax just a little.

"We've been more than just acquaintances," said Linda. "I suppose it was
inevitable we become lovers."

"No." Todd shook his head. "'It was not in any way predestined that we do this."
He hesitated. "But I wanted us to."

"And I guess maybe I did too," Linda said slowly. "Jack, Mom, all the others you
came to embrace. My nephew -- he was only seven, you son of a bitch. I argued,
remember.? I screamed and cried and begged. I used logic and I tried
bargaining." In her mind's eye, what she saw were the sick-beds and the hospital
wards and the nursing homes and the funeral parlors. She smelled the cloying
odors of farewell, and again tasted the precious, increasingly short supply of
tears.

"I'm not easy," said Todd.

"Don't I know it." Linda leaned closer to kiss him, the touch long and lingering
on his lips, the taste a little bitter. "What now?"

Todd looked away, then back, meeting her eyes. "Morning. I've got places to go."
He smiled. "People to meet. You know."

"Yes." She nodded. "I believe I do. But things between us aren't the same."

Todd sighed. "Nope, they're not."

"Morning's a while yet," said Linda. "Kiss me a few more times."

"I will do that," Todd said. And he did even more.

They stood in the open doorway of Linda's apartment. The eastern sky above the
city's skyline lightened.

"Be honest," she said.

"I'm always honest," he answered, "though sometimes people willfully
misunderstand me."

"Be honest," she said again.

"All right," he said. "Okay. Don't badger me." He took a deep breath, looked her
in the eye. His gaze didn't waver.

"You're stalling." She surprised herself that she could manage the tiniest of
smiles.

He acknowledged it, smiling himself, touching her lips lightly with his right
index finger, passing it across her mouth, pausing when he encountered the moist
tip of her tongue just barely extending beyond those soft lips. "Very good," he
said. "You've regained so much."

"But too late," she whispered.

Todd shrugged, stepped closer to her, now within an intimate radius. "I think I
could grow to love you." He sounded a little surprised with himself as he passed
the flat of his hand across her eyes. For just a moment, the blackest of
darknesses blotted her vision. Then the soft light of the approaching new
morning returned. "Too late." This time he really did laugh. "I do love you."

Linda thought about that. She stared boldly into the deep, dark wells of his
eyes. "But you're leaving me."

"For a while." He spread his hands as though helpless. "I know what that sounds
like."

"Should I wait?" said Linda, wondering what answer he'd choose.

No hesitation, but his smile widened. "Those pills in the bathroom? Use them for
headaches, or give 'em to the ants. Trust me to catch up with you."

"I can do that."

"Honest," he said. "I'll come again." The smile grew even further. "And so will
you." He winked.

He brushed his lips against hers. She felt the fire. Linda believed him. And
knew that she was capable of waiting until that unspecified future moment.

There was some disturbance at their feet. Todd glanced down at Mr. Claws, who
was glaring balefully up at them both, no doubt impatient for his pressed
chicken.

"Nice kitty," said Todd. "What a great old cat."

"Don't even think it," said Linda. "He's with me."

This time Todd laughed out loud. "I can live with that." He offered her a final
kiss. "And he can live with you. For now." He coughed. "Sorry. That's not too
comforting."

"You've never been a comfort," she said.

Todd looked for a moment as if he was deciding whether to say something.
Decided. "Listen, what you said before about being too late?" He shook his head.
"I just want you to know, you've got some time. I can't tell you how much. It'd
be cheating, you know?" The lines of fatigue dropped away from around his mouth
as he smiled. "Time is something to use well, okay?" Finger to his lips, kiss
transferred to her lips, and then he turned and descended the stairs. The sound
of his steps echoed and dissipated and was gone.

Light sleeted across the city's horizon.

Mr. Claws gurgled in his thick, furry throat.

"Okay," said Linda. "Breakfast."

Later, in the bathroom, she set one of the red capsules from the vial down in
the corner for the ants to carry away. If they wished. The rest she placed deep
in the medicine cabinet where they would not get in the way.