This Moment So Sweet

There are many places to go in town to watch girls dance naked. One of the better places is Frisky's on Main Street. While by no means the largest nude-dancing club in the area, Frisky's offers a more genteel atmosphere for the discriminating voyeur. On any given night, from the comfort of a thinly padded chair, you can sip Coca-Cola, smoke, and watch girls dance, one by one, to your heart's content.

Most of the acts go like this: a flashily clad girl in tall stiletto heels as the music begins. She dances around the stage, sometimes twirling around and gyrating against the pole that looks like a giant red and white candy cane. She removes her clothes in a game of hide and peek. Usually, by the end of the second song, you have the girl dancing for you more or less naked. And if she is the uninhibited sort and likes you, she may flash you some pink. To protect you from your unwise impulses, a four-foot-wide no man's land separates you from the stage. But if you have long arms and don't mind leaning, she'll gladly take a gratuity from you in the form of bills stuffed into some bodily crevice or any swath of clothing she may still be wearing.

But the real action takes place behind a red velvet curtain off to the side of the lounge. It's called the "Texas Table Dance." This is where you recline on a psychiatrist's couch. The girl dances over you, rubbing her body against yours. If you watch, you see her undulating form, merging, flowing, and receding--but don't you know it's rude to gawk like that? And what are you doing here, anyway?

Maybe you've come to see Celeste.

Celeste has danced here for the last few years. She has just changed her outfit and is now returning to her customers. She will tell you that there are three types of men. First, there are men like Tony. He's a married man who has to leave the club no later than 9:00 so he can make it home on time. He is one of Celeste's regulars. Celeste knows that Tony will be at the club on the first Saturday of every month unless she can talk him into coming more often. This is Tony's ideal affair because in his eyes, he's not actually cheating on his wife; just a little hand job now and then keeps Tony satisfied.

Next, there is the type of guy who can't get a woman of his own. He is wealthy and overly confident, the type who will jerk Celeste by the arm and say, "Dance for me, bitch." Most of the girls at this club will dance for him once or twice a night if they need the money. On a good night, he will be avoided and turned down numerous times. This rejection leads him back to the bitterness that he tried to leave outside.

Frat guys, usually crazy loudmouths, are shocked when Celeste tells them that she will not go home with them. They are near her age. The trepidation she feels about college-age guys centers on her fear of exposure. She avoids them because she does not want to be recognized at the university she attends during the day.

Celeste walks around the lounge, casting seductive glances at the patrons, looking for a sale. She feels the potential customers' eyes. Upon acceptance, she begins to dance. She touches her client's face sensuously, straddles the couch, and then slides her crotch slowly over the bulge in his pants. The client might stare up at her wildly. He may utter things such as, "Oh yeah, baby! Shake those tits for me!" If he climaxes, he promptly leaves the club for the evening.

When she dances on stage, Celeste tries to focus on the music. She tries not to catch a glimpse of her own image in one of the mirrors because she doesn't always recognize the stranger she sees.

Eventually, the club empties. Smoke and sweat linger heavily in the lounge. The floor is littered with bachelor party favors and cigarette butts. Celeste changes out of her costume, puts on her overcoat, and drives home.

It was almost 2:30 when Celeste walked through the front door of the apartment. As always, Sam's reading light by the recliner was left on so she could see her way around. Something smelled good. Lasagna? All that dancing had made her hungry.

She walked into the bedroom and began to disrobe before the mirror above the dresser. Her reflection appeared as a shadow in the darkness.

"How was your night?" Sam asked from the bed.

"Same old business," she replied. Sam never wanted to hear more.

"I made you lasagna," he said. "Three-cheese, the kind you like." "Sounds great. I'm starving."

Although it was late, she took a very long shower. She used pumice soap to scrub fingerprints from her skin.

As she dried herself, she gazed at Sam's half-filled bottle of Jack Daniels set on the glass shelf just below the mirror with a black line drawn shakily on the bottle. The whole time she had lived at the apartment, the level of the amber liquid in the bottle had never changed. A few weeks after she moved in, Celeste asked Sam about the bottle. "It's a memento," he said. And that was that. She never liked the taste of whiskey, so she left it alone. One afternoon while cleaning the apartment, she stowed the bottle in a kitchen cabinet. The next morning, the bottle was back on the shelf below the mirror. And there it had stood ever since.

She left the bathroom wearing only a fuzzy, pink bathrobe. She turned on the light and sat on the bed next to Sam. He had rolled over onto his right side, his usual sleeping position. She wrapped her arms around him.

"What's this for?" he asked, sounding wider-awake than she'd thought he'd be. "While I was dancing--I was thinking of you tonight."

"I thought of you, too."

She gave him a gentle squeeze. "I'm so happy. I would never be graduating if it weren't for you."

"You're the one who did it. I just helped out a little, gave you a little nudge now and then."

"No, it's more than that." Celeste felt a lump in her throat.

Sam turned to face her. He stroked her cheek with his thumb. "Anyone would have done it for you."

Celeste thought of the lounge full of men staring her up and down. She doubted the verity of that statement. "I'd really like it if you could visit me at work before I quit." "You know I don't like those kinds of places."

"It would flatter me if you would. Jake comes to visit Teri while she works. I feel awful dancing for strangers when I'd really like to dance for you."

"You'd better eat your lasagna before it gets too late. Don't your finals start tomorrow? You'll need the sleep."

Celeste always felt bad about how she earned her money. Sam's not talking to her about it didn't help. It was as if she had some dirty secret that they both knew but never mentioned. She thought that if only Sam would let her dance for him, his acceptance of her would validate what she did every night, make it seem more respectable. She sensed that it was probably unhealthy to need anyone's approval, but she loved him. Most of all, she wanted to feel that she was his star as he was hers. In the dim light of the bedroom, she noticed an opened letter sitting on the desk along with an ochre envelope that she suspected had been returned through the mail. It was a rejection slip from a book publisher.

"That was the last one from that group," Sam said dryly from the bed. "They hated it."

Celeste read the letter. It was merely an impersonal missive, similar to many others he had received. It stated simply that though the work had merit, it did not suit their current needs.

"They didn't hate it. They just said that it wasn't what they were looking for. Didn't you say that the fantasy science fiction market was soft right now?"

"I think I just wasted my time writing it."

Celeste's heart ached for Sam. He felt that his novel was the achievement of his life, the one thing that distinguished him from the pack. Sam had a degree in computer science and had once made good money programming for a local Internet software company, but the 60-plus hour weeks killed his creativity. So, for the last three years he had worked as a counter person at an auto parts store so that he could have a regular 40-hour week that allowed him enough time to work on his book. After countless revisions, his achievement remained unappreciated. She would do anything to help him, but writing fiction was not one of her personal strengths. It troubled her that after everything Sam had done for her she could not help him in the area of his life where he needed it most.

"Sam, let's get married."

Sam laughed.

"Really. I'm serious. Let's plan it for a week after I graduate."

"Nah, it's not a good idea."

"Why not?"

"I've told you that before. I haven't made my mark yet. I have to earn your respect."

"What do you mean 'earn my respect'? We love each other. Isn't that what counts?"

He grinned. "I have a surprise, Celeste."

"What's that?"

"I have an idea for a new book."

"You do? That's wonderful!"

"Yeah, I've been chewing it over for the last month. I'm ready to start writing it."

"What's it about?"

Sam hesitated. "Well--a little of this, a little of that--I don't want to give it away yet."

"Oh," she said, deflated. "Can we get married after you finish your new book, then?"

"Sure. Anything you want. But I'll need to sell it, first."

"Don't you know you don't have to get a book published for me to respect you?"

He didn't answer.

"Sam?"

A silence passed between them that seemed interminable to Celeste. Realizing she wasn't going to get anywhere, she decided to let it go. "Oh, what am I going to do with you?"

"It's getting late. You'd better eat."

She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Although it was almost three, she wasn't sleepy. "I went on a job interview today. It was for an advertising agency downtown."

"How'd it go?"

"I hated it. I was so nervous. I think they liked me, though."

"Did they make you an offer?"

"No. They said they wanted to interview a few other people, and they'd call me once they made a decision. Do you think I'll get it?"

Sam shrugged. "You'd be a better judge of that than me. But you sent out lots of resumes, right? I'm sure that if they don't hire you, someone else will."

"You think so?"

"Why wouldn't they? Now go get your lasagna."

She gave him one last squeeze then left for the kitchen.

Sitting at the table staring across the city lights from the dining room window of their sixth-story apartment, she recalled the time four years ago when she had moved in with Sam. Depressed and on shaky terms with her latest boyfriend, Kyle, she needed a place to stay, a place where she could heal until she decided what to do. She still recalled Sam's ad in the paper:

M/F roommate wanted for two-bedroom apartment. Sep. bath, view, pool, secure, indoor parking. $480/mo. + 1/2 util.

She was one of the first to view Sam's place, and of all those places she visited, his had given her the best feeling. But she'd waited too long to give him the word, and he had accepted another roommate, a male Asian engineering student who needed a place to stay for the summer. The night of the blowout fight with Kyle, she had no place to go. She called Sam. He told her the room was taken, but she persisted. God, she nearly begged him for the room. Kindly, he relented and gave it to her, knowing he'd be backing out of his word with the engineering student. She moved in that evening with everything she could fit into her 1977 Volkswagen Beetle.

Originally, she had intended to stay only until she could afford a place of her own. But she and Sam soon became good friends. She found she could talk to him, reveal her innermost thoughts. No matter what she said, he accepted her. Summer faded into autumn. Their friendship deepened. By the first winter's snow, they had become lovers. Gently, he began urging her to better herself. "Do you want to be a dancer all your life?" he would ask. "What are you going to do when you're not so young and pretty anymore?"

College wasn't as easy as dancing. Often she struggled with the more challenging courses that were made twice as difficult when the class met early in the morning after she had danced late the night before. There were many times when she wanted to just drop out of school, but Sam urged her on, helping her with her homework when he could, and so she persisted. She was not an excellent student, but she learned, and her grades steadily improved. The credits accumulated; the requirements were met. She moved on to the university. The cost of tuition was enormous; this was where most of her tips went. She would have been able to buy a new car and live pretty well on her own if she hadn't had to pay for tuition. Now only a week away from graduating with a BS in Business Administration, she was a long way from the dusty trailer court in New Mexico where she had lived as a girl.

Celeste arrived at Frisky's at a quarter to seven. It was a Saturday night. The lounge was practically standing room only. Wearing her nondescript khaki overcoat, Celeste pressed swiftly through the lounge and straight to the dressing room packed with seven sweating women. Some were on break. Others were changing their outfits. The stale air was a confluence of cigarette smoke, marijuana, and perfume. Heated conversations amongst some of the women challenged the insistent thump of the music from the lounge. Celeste heard snatches of conversations on her way to the dressing table she shares with Teri:

"What do you think, Sylvia? You think Carmen's daddy's gonna show up here and ask that little tramp to dance for him? Hell no!"

"....he's got some nerve ..."

"....know Jessica will flip when she hears this shit."

As Celeste moved toward the dressing table, she heard that Veronica would be coming that evening. Veronica sold costumes. She usually came to the club on Friday and Saturday nights when most of the dancers were there. One of the girls complained that Veronica hadn't yet delivered the ice-blue outfit she ordered nearly two weeks ago. The new costume was supposed to be made from the same material Celeste wore. It was a silky, transparent material that rubbed against her breasts while she moved, keeping her nipples erect throughout the night. The material was popular also because it felt nice on the skin.

Teri was rolling a joint on the dressing table. She made room for Celeste once she saw her. Celeste placed her make-up bag on the table, shed her overcoat, and quickly changed into her lime-green bikini and lemon-yellow cape. Then quietly she sat down at the dresser and began running a comb through her hair.

Teri looked at Celeste's reflection in the mirror. "You're quiet tonight," she said, lighting her joint.

"I've decided that I want to dance for Sam."

"Sounds like a good idea. I dance for Jake."

"I don't think Sam would like me to, though."

"Why not?"

"He won't say. He never likes to talk about it. I feel so bad for him. I think he's bothered about not being able to sell his book. He put so much work into it."

Teri flicked the ashes from the joint into a tray on the dressing table. She brought it to her mouth again. "Get him drunk. Then he'll want you to dance."

"Sam doesn't drink."

"Then get him stoned."

Celeste lowered the comb to her lap and clutched it in her hands. "I worry about him, Teri. He used to stay up all night writing. I never see him write anymore. All he does is work and work at that auto parts store."

"At least he has a job. I have to fight with Jake to get him to pick up his unemployment check."

Teri held the joint out to Celeste. She took it, inhaled, and immediately broke into a fit of coughing.

"What the hell? What is this?"

Teri grinned. "Colombian Gold."

"Evidently," Celeste said, choking. She handed the joint back to Teri. "Sam's the gentlest man I've ever known. I want do something special for him."

Teri took another drag and held it in her lungs a moment before releasing it. The smoke puffing from Teri's mouth while she spoke reminded Celeste of an ornamental Chinese incense burner she once saw in a gift shop.

"Remember I told you Jake is in that twelve-step program? He was doing great-at least I thought he was, then the other night I come home from work and he's not home. I call everywhere-he's not there. The next morning he calls me from jail. He says he got drunk and got into a fight at some bar. He doesn't remember the fight, though. That's just what they told him he did. He just remembers waking up in jail. It's happened over and over again, but I still love him."

"You know, Sam's cleaned me up since I started living with him. And I used to do some hard-core shit."

"Well, you still smoke grass."

"That's different. I need it to do this. I'll quit when I stop dancing." Celeste turned back to the mirror. She looked at Teri through the glass. "Do you think he'd like it if I danced for him?"

"How could he not?" Teri brought her face close to Celeste's. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but I think you're the best dancer in here." She paused while muffled applause rose from the lounge. "You're pretty hot when you finally loosen up. If Sam ain't turned on by your dancing, you'd better check him for a pulse."

Annelise opened the dressing room door and poked her head in. "Teri!" she barked. "You're on!"

"Gotta go." Teri quickly mashed out the remainder of the joint. "Good luck with it." She slipped out of the dressing room and into the chainsaw opening chords of Judas Priest's "You've Got Another Thing Coming."

Alone at the dressing table, Celeste gazed at her reflection illuminated by the dusty bulbs that framed the mirror. She took stock of her honey-colored hair, recently clipped level just above the swell of her breasts. She visualized what it would be like to dance for Sam, trying to imagine the lusty look he would give her as she rubbed her body close to his. If she could dance for strangers, she could dance for him. But a dance for Sam wouldn't be any old dance: she would give him the special moves she reserved only for her best customers.

Celeste didn't have to work the next night, so she went straight home after her last class. The kitchen was filled with steam when she walked through the front door. Sam was stirring something in one of the pots on the stove. The room smelled deliciously of tomato sauce and baking bread.

"Hi, Honey," she said, dropping her books onto the dining room table.

"Hey, Babe," he called back as he looked inside the oven.

She gave Sam a kiss. "How was your day?"

"Not bad."

"Smells good in here. What are you cooking?"

"I'm trying this recipe I found the other day in the paper. It's a seafood marinara with prawns, mussels, and scallops. It should be done soon. We're going to have fresh-baked olive bread with it."

"I can't wait." She wrapped her arms around Sam, placing her hands on his belly. She pressed her hips into his buttocks, feeling their firmness against her pelvis. "You're going to make me fat. You know that? I'll be fat if it makes you happy."

"I like you however you want to be."

"That's why I love you so much." She released him and scanned the countertops, a jumble of half-prepared food. Her hands felt empty without Sam in them. "Is there anything I can do?"

"The table is already set. You can shred that lettuce."

"Okay. Let me put on something more comfortable. I'll be right back."

On her way to the bedroom, Celeste turned on the stereo and put in Vivaldi's Four Seasons, one of Sam's all-time favorite CDs. It was part of a classical music set she had given Sam for his birthday two years ago.

On entering the bedroom, Celeste noticed that something was different-the desk had been cleaned bare. Neither a scrap of paper nor yellow sticky note remained. The computer was gone, too-monitor, keyboard, everything, even the speedy new printer he'd bought a few months back. She frowned as she gazed at the vacated desk, which now appeared oddly out of place in the otherwise cluttered room. She looked inside the drawers-they were empty except for a few pens, an eraser, and a stapler. She wondered where the computer had gone, for Sam kept all of his writing in the machine, and he used it to revise his work. As she slipped on a more comfortable pair of shoes, her heel rested upon something hard and sharp at the edge of the bed. She picked it up and examined it. It was a jagged piece of white plastic about three inches long. It appeared to have been broken off something. She turned the plastic over in her hands, trying to figure out where it came from.

She placed the plastic into her pocket and re-entered the kitchen amidst the beginning of "Summer." Sam was removing the bread from the oven. She washed her hands and began shredding the lettuce.

She gazed at the loaf sitting on a wood cutting board on the table. "That bread smells good. I think we can make a meal of that alone."

"You haven't tasted anything yet," he said, returning to stirring the angel-hair pasta.

"By the way, where's the computer?"

"The computer? The computer is broken."

"Where is it?"

"I took it to a shop to have it fixed."

"The monitor and printer, too?"

Sam paused in his stirring. "I didn't know where the problem is. It just wouldn't do what I wanted it to."

"I thought you liked to work on computers."

"I didn't want to mess with it. I don't have the time."

"How long are they going to have it?"

"I don't know. One month, maybe two."

"That long?" She added some shredded carrots and diced scallions to the lettuce. "I hope you backed up your work before you sent it in. That's what they taught us to do in that computer class you wanted me to take."

"Don't worry about it. I took care of everything."

"What are you going to write with until you get it back?"

"Just drop it, Celeste. Okay?" he said edgily.

He was no longer stirring. He stood with his back to her, head hung over the steaming pot of pasta as if inhaling the steam. Celeste wiped off her hands, reached into her pocket, and pulled out the plastic piece.

"Sam, what's this?"

When he turned to her, his cheeks were dripping with condensation from the steam-or tears. Celeste could not tell which.

"It's looks like a piece of plastic."

"I know that. What from?"

"Let me see." He took the plastic and examined it. "I don't know. Where did you find it?"

"I found it on the floor in the bedroom."

"I don't know. It's probably nothing to be concerned about." He opened the doors to the sink cabinet and stuffed it into an overfilled plastic trash basket. A pasta box and empty cans of tomato sauce tumbled onto the floor, splattering the white floor linoleum with red sauce. "Dammit," he said as he scrambled to pick them up and stuff them into the basket.

"I ought to take out the trash," Celeste said, helping him.

"No, that's all right."

"Well, the salad's done. I don't mind."

"You can do it later. Let's eat now."

They ate dinner in relative silence without mentioning the computer, writing, dancing, or any other touchy subject. Although the dinner was delicious, Celeste found it hard to enjoy. By the time dinner had ended and the dishwasher was started, they'd had three years' worth of Four Seasons. Celeste put on a CD of Chopin's piano classics, and they retired to the living room. Sam sat in the recliner, she on his lap with her arms around his neck. They sat that way for a long time, her head on his shoulder, him stroking her hair.

"Are you happy?" she asked.

"That's a funny question. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know. I just wonder sometimes."

"I'm happy with you, if that's what you're really asking."

"Are you sure? I mean, you ask so little of me."

He ran his hands through her hair. "You make me very happy."

She traced the line of his chin and jaw with her finger. "So you say, but I want to do something for you. Something special."

"You're already doing what I like."

She pulled out of his grasp to face him squarely. "Teri says I'm the best dancer at Frisky's."

Sam smiled slightly. "She's probably right."

"Aren't you curious why she says that?"

"I trust that whatever you do for your customers you do well."

She rocked her buttocks against his thighs. "Do you want to see why?"

"Please don't, Celeste. To give me what you give them puts me at their level." "That's not so!"

"Would a policeman throw his girlfriend into jail because that's what he does with criminals?"

"No, but that's different."

"Then you don't have to do for me what you do for your customers at Frisky's. They get the tease. I get the real thing."

"But sometimes, the desire is more thrilling."

Celeste slipped off the recliner and stood in front of Sam, straightening her blouse and jeans. He studied her thoughtfully.

"Let me dance for you, Sweetie. Let me dance for you just once. Please?"

A pained look crossed his face. "Why now all of the sudden? Didn't you say you would be quitting soon?"

"Yes, and that's exactly why. I want to put all the dancing behind me when I quit, not dance again. If I don't do this for you now, I never will."

"Is it really that important to you?"

"Yes," she breathed. "Very important. I want to express my love for you."

Sam brought his fingers to his chin. "You know, it's been years since I've been to a club."

"It would be great."

"Okay. Just once."

She returned wearing her sequined, crimson cape and costume she had ordered from Veronica.

First, she put in her custom-made CD that began with Def Leppard's "Armageddon It" and turned up the volume until the driving beat filled the apartment, then she shut off the light and flipped on the Psych-o-Light that Teri had loaned her. The device cast dozens of geometric shapes and smiling faces into the room. They rotated along the walls in a slow-motion whirlwind of light.

As always, she started slowly, then picked up the tempo. She did not make eye contact at first; she let her body do the communicating. "Armageddon It" ended, and "You Can Leave Your Hat On" by Joe Cocker began. "Baby, take off your coat-real slow," she sang along. She imagined herself a ballet dancer imitating the sea swelling and receding along a soft, sandy shore.

Half-way through the song, Celeste straddled Sam, who reclined on the couch. He positioned himself perfectly beneath her. He knows the usual position, she noted. She began her table dance. When she finally looked into Sam's eyes she saw something wild in them, animalistic, something she hadn't seen before. This was so unlike the Sam she knew. She wasn't sure if this thing pleased or terrified her. She shifted her mind away from his odd expression and concentrated on letting the music infiltrate her movement. She rocked her hips, feeling the bulge in his jeans against the crotch of her crimson silk panties. She was becoming aroused herself. A thought came to her: Every move I make, I make for you, my Love. You are my guide, my private North Star that guides me through the night. In this moment, so sweet, I live only for you. How may I please you more? As if in direct response to her thoughts, Sam suddenly clutched her hips, firmly, almost too hard. Out of habit, she pried off his hands without losing sync with the music.

His interest seemed to flag a bit, but she was not through teasing him. She brushed her swollen softness against the swell in his jeans, now just a little harder, sliding fully up and down, back and forth. He caught on again. Now, with each stroke, he would raise his hips to meet her. "Oh, I like that," she cooed, just loud enough so that he could hear her above the music. She gazed into his eyes again. The look was still there, but now his mouth was agape, his face flushed, forehead shiny with sweat. She almost didn't recognize him-he seemed like so many of the other patrons that visited Frisky's. She'd seen the look perhaps a thousand times, the look of empty, lonely men with something broken loose inside and rattling around. Suddenly, she felt sorry for Sam. She wondered whether the dancing was a good idea. He clutched her hips again. She felt the insistence in his grip and the hot sweat of his palms burned through the thin, crimson miniskirt. This time, she let him take her.

The next morning, just as she was washing out her coffee cup, preparing to leave for class, Celeste remembered the overfilled trash bucket beneath the sink. She thought that she would save Sam the trouble of making a special trip to the dumpster downstairs in the parking garage. Gingerly, she sealed the trash bag with a knot and, books cradled in one arm and a bag in the other. She took the stairs to the garage. There were two centrally located dumpsters for the entire complex. As she dumped the bag into one of containers, she saw a black power cord hanging out of the adjacent container. She thought that perhaps the cord belonged to some discarded kitchen appliance. Sam liked to fix broken appliances and donate them to the Salvation Army. She lifted the dumpster lid to see what the cord was connected to. At the bottom, partially covered with refuse, was a smashed computer. Moved by a sudden misgiving, she raised the lid higher to get a better look. She cleared off some of the refuse with her free hand. It was Sam's computer. Amid the broken equipment were piles of shredded paper and crushed disks. "Oh, Sam!" she said. "What did you do?"

Celeste wiped her eyes. She could scarcely picture Sam doing such a thing. He had given her the impression that he didn't care anymore whether he sold the book. Then it became clear to her: every night while she danced at Frisky's, Sam would struggle to overcome the demons that stood between him and whatever inspired him to write. Perhaps he would cry out; perhaps he would slam his fist on the desk at being unable to put a single inspired sentence on the page. And when she came home after a profitable night of dancing and tips, he'd put on an air of indifference to hide his shame at not having written a word all evening. Probably, he never really had an idea for a second book, for the first one had broken his heart.

The elevator door opened, and an overweight middle-aged woman exited carrying a paper grocery bag, soaking wet with kitchen waste and topped with coffee grounds. She ambled toward the container that held the computer. Celeste rose to her feet and stood between the woman and the dumpster. She pointed to the adjacent container. "No, that one."

Celeste left Frisky's at midnight. Before she left, she put in her two-week notice with Annelise. The downtown advertising company with whom Celeste had interviewed three days before had called earlier in the day. They wanted her to start as soon as she graduated, which was the following week. To her delight, they offered her a starting salary of twice what she was making at Frisky's - including the tips. She accepted the position. For the rest of the day she fought the impulse to call Sam to tell him the good news. She wanted to give it to him in person.

Driving home on dark, empty streets, she thought of Sam's computer, which she had dropped off at a local repair shop on her way to class. A pencil-necked geek, whose teeth were coated with a yellow film, laughed when he checked it in at the counter. "Looks like some Vietnam vet wigged out on your system," he had quipped witlessly. "Probably couldn't get it to boot, so he gave it one of his own!" The geek had called Celeste on her cell phone that afternoon to inform her that the computer was not salvageable, its internal drive no longer contained the documents she had described, and, "By the way, I know you're probably out of my league, but could I take you out to dinner?"

"Dream on," she replied coolly, disconnecting the call. She wondered whether she should confront Sam about lying to her or let it go.

Celeste stood by the door, her keys still in her hand. "Honey, I'm home!" she called into the darkness. She noticed a peculiar stillness in the air. The apartment felt warmer than usual, too, as though the air conditioning had not been run at all that day. She could not detect the usual smell of something tasty having been cooked on the stove. The kitchen was dark. The bedroom was dark. In fact, the whole apartment was dark. Even the lamp by the recliner chair was off. She turned on the light by the chair and laid her crimson graduation gown across the dining room table. She smoothed a few wrinkles on the garment then stood back to admire it.

"Sam? You want to see my gown?" Immediately, she cursed her loudness in case he was asleep. She opened the refrigerator expecting to find leftover marinara from the night before or a pre-cooked Cornish game hen ready for the microwave. The spot set aside for her midnight meal was empty. She entered the bedroom.

A narrow shaft of steel blue light shined through the partially drawn drapes. She pulled aside the drapes and gazed up at the full moon. Its glow glittered against the sequins on her outfit, which, for the first time, she had not bothered to remove when she left the club. An iridescent, whitish halo surrounded the moon. It must be unseasonably cold up there, she thought, for the halo was caused by moonlight reflecting off ice crystals. She smiled slightly, pleased that she remembered this from a meteorology course she had taken. She switched on nightstand lamp, hoping to spot any note he had left. "Where are you, Sam?" She heard her worry in her voice.

She decided to check the refrigerator for notes again and maybe make some phone calls. As she passed the bathroom doorway, she saw her reflection in the mirror above the sink. She paused to admire her image. But she wasn't admiring the slinky outfit, the sequins, or her slim figure; this time she admired the face of a college graduate with a future. But something familiar was missing from the shelf below the mirror, leaving behind a clean circle in the dust.

          CHARLES ROCHA