Waltzing

One wish. What would it be?"

"Why only one? Most people get three."

"We broke up," she said. "Again. For the last time." Each word was accented harshly. She blew smoke in his face. She had only been smoking for a couple of weeks, and she still had control problems. Back at his apartment, there were several burn marks on the rug, melted nylon, where she had been careless with her ashes. Here, where we worked, the floor was a safe, marred tile. "We broke up," she said. "Again. For the last time."

"Come on in. You want to talk about it, or ignore it?"

"Whatever works. Whatever works."

At work, he was distracted even before she showed up, not that it mattered any. So late at night, it was rare for the phones to ring, and as long as the phones were quiet, he was free to do whatever he wanted. A phone company operator in a small town, the last of a dying breed. Directory assistance, maybe five calls a week. Another five calls of helping place long-distance calls. Once, an over-seas phone call. Paris. Every now and then, a panicked voice, an emergency. A choking baby. A robbery, a fire. "What does a gas leak smell like?" Nobody in their right mind used the phone in the middle of the night. It was a quiet job. He read a lot. He was being paid nearly five dollars an hour to become incredibly well read. He had a small combination t.v. and tape deck he took to work with him. Once, he talked someone out of committing suicide. Or maybe he didn't. The person agreed to flush the pills, but never called again.

Whether that silence meant the pills were flushed, or swallowed, he had no real way of knowing. No deaths were reported through his office. If the person did change their mind, flushed the pills, he believed they would be too embarrassed to ever call again.

Instinct: never show the same person the same weakness more than once because their first instinct would be to kick it.

She agreed to quit smoking that night, after she broke off with her boyfriend. If she didn't get back at him in any other way, she would simply outlive him.

"I should hate men," she said. "So why am I here with you?"

"I'm your best friend."

"Isn't there something weird in that? Men and women just can't be friends, can they? Really? Surely not best friends."

"I thought we'd been doing pretty well."

"Maybe so. Maybe so."

"You've been off and on with him for four years. Maybe fifteen breakups. Can you think of any fights we've had during that time?"

"Only one. I decided to start smoking and you told me I was being stupid."

"I was right."

"Don't rub it in."

"Remember that suicide I told you about? She said every time she made a mistake, her lover rubbed it in."

"Rubbed what in?"

"She didn't specify. I assume the mistake."

"Maybe so. Maybe so."

"Cancer."

"Is that your sign, or your condition?"

"My sign."

"Lucky you."

"Hey . . ."

"Sorry, but I've got a call on another line."

"She wanted to pick me up over the phone." He laughed. "She said I had a nice voice."

"You do have a nice voice." She got up from the hard metal chair, and turned on the television, not looking at it, but instead, pacing the floor. "Why do I want a cigarette? I only smoked for three weeks."

"I've got a couple of joints left. In my coat. Leave the door open, and it'll suck the smoke out of the room. No one will ever know. At least they've never noticed before."

"Not even the cops strolling around outside?" She shook her head. "I just want to get my lungs cleared again." She turned, and looked at the television, where Marilyn Monroe was pushing a flower pot off a ledge, barely missing Tom Ewell's head. The t.v. was snapped off...