HEL-LENA

It was very hot and humid; the kind of day a person could spontaneously combust harmlessly because their sweat would put out the fire. Personally, I don’t sweat I flood, so on these kind of days I stayed away from crowds out of embarrassment because my under arms stains would spread to anyone near bye. When I entered the coffee shop, I wasn’t looking my best, which truth be told would require a black out during a total eclipse and an admirer with eye lids that were permanently rusted shut. I was one of the few people when taking a head shot the photographer would yell out “duck!”

The counter kid, who had a flat face with a complexion so bad it looked like a tray of French pastries, took my order, a large ice coffee. I was pounding my straw into the java bending it several times trying to jam it through the glacier (that couldn’t even be affected by global warming on the sun), when she came up to me and asked if she could sit at my table.

I hadn’t seen her yet, so I said, “Yes” without stammering, raising my voice a few octaves, or imploding my skeletal system so that it looked like I was standing sideways. But once I looked up and saw her gorgeous face I started blinking so hard the air blew away her fake eye lashes, contact lenses, than blew open her blouse, the skin of her breasts was forced so tight I could see the patent number on her implants. Her skirt finally lifted covering her face and blowing into her mouth and down her throat far enough that it wrapped around her G-string – chocking her. The counter boy called an ambulance, taking an order of two large mocha-chinos with skim milk (two Splenders in each, the New Jersey daily requirement for carcinogens) before he could tell them about the gagging woman.

I ran to her, ripped the skirt and the thong out of her mouth, tearing a few too perfect teeth loose, and almost ripping her tongue off which had been caught in a lace hem. Lucky for her the skirt was a cheap rip off and ripped off. Her eye’s twittered underneath her lids and then her body and face shook violently surrounding her head with a cloud of foundation and other make up, causing the arriving team of paramedics to give CPR to each other first. By the time they reached her she was dead, frozen with such a horrifying facial expression that it made the mortician place her in a closed coffin with a bag over her head. It was a topless funeral home so the place was still jammed with happy mourners.

I wished it happened like that, but unfortunately it didn’t. I wouldn’t have wasted so much time. Oh, the humidity and the coffee stuff were true but compared to what happened after that, I was putting a positive spin on things.
I hadn’t been able to penetrate the ice in my cup so out of frustration I had started drinking milk right out of the metal craft, when she said, “Is anyone sitting here?” I instinctively looked up; a funnel of milk coated my face and slid down my neck on to her feet. My white tong flapped like a flounder on a flagpole but only a moist gurgle climbed out.

She laughed and said, “I guess that means it’s okay for me to sit here.”
Sort of a “yes” came out, subject to that interpretation, but only if you had no particular language, body movements, or species (earthly or not) in mind. I’ve always been intimidated by pretty women, or women, or pictures of women, or pictures taken by women, or even female ends of on RCA plug. And as long as I can remember I’ve been attracted to the female body. In fact my first girlfriend was almost entirely female – and would have been if she weren’t such a slow healer (a black out during the operation). Just kidding. A few weeks back I had the good fortune of meeting a woman who couldn’t keep her hands off of me. Of course, she was drowning.

The woman who sat across from me had the kind of beauty that sucked men’s breath away along with their wallets. Which I wasn’t concerned about since the emptiness of my wallet created such a vacuum that when I raised my chair stuck it to me like it was magnetized. I felt myself falling for her, like I was sinking in quick sand made of super glue.

She tossed me a smile so sweet it would break your heart by clogging your arteries while at the same time it was so sexy it would make Viagra work in a cremation urn. “Hi, I’m Helena,” the way she accented the first syllable of her name it should have been a warning but like most males when it comes to pretty women we see warning signs like politician’s see ethics. We’ll over look a minus IQ, multiple boring personalities, a right hook, open bullet wounds, playful eye gouging, projectile vomiting, demonic possession, the humping of your dog’s leg or we’ll see our way past cannibalism, or early stages of leprosy (unless you have a foot fetish and insist on all ten toes), and with a shot or two of alcohol we’d probably pretend not to notice a Tony Orlando and Dawn CD collection (but not posters above her bed).

I splattered my name out, along with drops of milk, across the table. She slid her head sideways like a boxer, dodging the liquid jabs from a great white dope, but somehow managing to catch my name. “I like that. It fits you like a helmet or a wristband or a woolen scarf. I’m not going to tell you my last name is, so you’re going to just have to fill in the blanks with your imagination.” At the time my imagination was filled with images of me shooting blanks. Before I could let that discouragement develop into suicidal daydreams, she released her acting credits out like steam escaping from a broken pipe valve, turning the milk and coffee in my mouth to cappuccino.

If an actress was captured during a war, she’d give you her name, rank and every credit she ever head. You’d have to water board this one to stop her from talking about herself. I think her first word was, “Me.” Oh, she did say that she was a spiritual person in tune with nature. Right, this girl would only be one with the universe if she got top billing. Oh, she did eventually stop talking but that was only to ask me why I wasn’t taking notes.

I avoided that answer which was only made worse by my response. “You know, I’m director,” which was true. I had made a movie with enough Italian names in it I was surprised my contract didn’t include me putting a hit on someone or (maybe it did, that’s why it never made it into theaters, video, dvds or on any of the actor’s resumes). I’m being hard on myself; the film did win an award. I received the best director in a festival where the award was a cremation urn filled with my film which, instead of fireworks, or lights, or even a torch was burned as part of the opening ceremony.

Just the fact that my movie had been long enough so its ashes filled the urn seemed to impress her. “Would you like to go with me to a July 4th party tomorrow, they’ll be fire works and bottled water?” When she asked, she leaned over and pressing her chest against my face, revealing cleavage so deep that my voice echoed.
“Yes,” I said, once, but it reverberated itself repeatedly.
“Great, I’ll meet you here tomorrow at one,” she said as she handed me a business card with her face and phone number on both sides and in the centerfold.
I dug into my pocket and then handed her a business card which had my phone number on the side that said I owed the phone company one hundred and seventy-five bucks.
She laughed an actress laugh – parted lips, perfect white teeth, heightened cheekbones, twinkling eyes-- an involuntary reaction to words she hadn’t listened to. Then she turned and left sucking my eyes along with her.

That night I resisted calling her by pulling down the shades and putting all the lights out in my house so I couldn’t read her number, but just in case I couldn’t resist temptation I super glued my fingers to its twin on my other hand. I sat there in the dark, unable to twiddle my thumbs, hoping she would call. Shortly past midnight I was awakened by the phone ringing through my eardrums. “Hello,” I managed to sneak out between my mouth, drool, and the pillow.
“Hi,” bounced out of my phone like Santa Claus on speed laced with Xstacy. “I hope I didn’t wake you?” The ringing faded away and my ears were hearing what my eyes wished they could see.
“No, not at all. I was just reading a script for my next movie, “ I lied, knowing what she’d say next.
“I hope there’s a part for me,” she purred like a lion about to pounce on sheep and a horny Shepard.
“There’s a great one, that you’d be perfect for,” I lied to her face, via, the mouthpiece, transmitter, airways and a few hundred phone towers.
“What’s the script about?” she asked like she was about to place a bet after dealing from the bottom of the deck.
“It’s too complicated to tell you over the phone.”
“Oh, I love complicated. I’m great at it,” she love tapped back to me. “I can’t wait…Oh, I forgot to tell you why I called. Can you bring a bag of charcoal? We all have to bring something. I’m an awful cook, so I suggested we bring something that’s supposed to be burnt,” she said so innocently I had to remind mind myself that being beautiful trumps being dumb.
“Sure, how big a bag?”
“I don’t know, one that you can fit the charcoal in.” Once again I reminded myself that you can’t touch dumb, but you can rub, fondle, and lick beautiful.
“Bye, “ she said and hung up hearing her own voice, which to her was the equivalent of quitting while you’re on top.

I woke up early and spent the morning, ripping my hands apart, then drank three glasses of instant breakfast, which took me an hour just to open each package, repaired the missing skin tissue on my fingers tips with plumbers putty and waited for them to stop bleeding.

I arrived at the coffee shop at noon, but not wanting to seem too anxious I hid in the bathroom till 1:05. When I left the bathroom, an irritable line of people with irritable bowels and bursting bladders had formed around the block, so I couldn’t see where my princess was sitting and I was sure she couldn’t hear me scream her name (or help) through the shouts of the angry mob that pushed, shoved and kicked me into the room, lucky for me their movements were restricted by other restricted movements.

All of the tables were filled with customers who were either pretentiously reading west village newspapers, working on their computers, or making sure I didn’t have a place to sit. I figured she’d arrive any minute so I didn’t care if I had to stand. I put down the bag of charcoal and waited. And waited. And waited. At one thirty a table emptied and I took my charcoal date and sat and waited patiently for my human date. I got up at one-forty-five and ordered a tall iced coffee, which holds about as much actual coffee as a contact lens. Like the day before it was hot enough to fry an egg inside a chicken and the humidity was thick enough to lean against. She was now an hour and half late.

I had called her cell phone but it went directly to voice mail. I left message trying not to sound desperate or anxious so I kept it to under an hour. After another ninety-minutes I asked myself how long should I wait, but my answer, which was based on logic that must have had its roots in hormones and desperation, kept coming up forever. Then I started to worry that she had gotten in a bad accident. Or she got in an accident so bad that she was disfigured or even worse… she got in an accident was disfigured and still showed up!

I watched the clock in the coffee shop, the one on my cell phone, and even counted nervous twitches as the time passed crawling uphill. Finally, just when I was about to take a stand and had decided not to wait any longer than an additional week, my phone rang and it was my dream girl. She said that she had gone shopping, got her hair done, had a manicure, saw a play, cleaned her apartment, adopted a dog at the pound, took a practice pregnancy test, saw her shrink, her psychic, her lesbian watch group, her kettle cleaning class, shaved several of the Rockette’s left legs, or stole their shoes (she doesn’t remember which one) and ate three seedless grapes by mistake and she just lost track of time.

I accepted her apology by apologizing for expecting her to be on time and waited another hour when she turned up asking if I was her date or just some guy I’d hired to carry the charcoal. After I told her I’d forgotten, she poured milk on my face and then immediately recognized me from our first meeting. She asked if I had the directions. I reminded her that they were her friends and I had no idea where the party was. At first she thought I was using it as an excuse because I no longer felt that she was attractive, even though I was absent-mindedly unbuttoning her blouse. Before I never noticed that it didn't have buttons and I was trying to remove her nipples, she realized that I was telling the truth and slapped me several times for being too forward and a few more times for finishing my coffee before she arrived.

She called her friends for the directions and we were on our way. Just a few subway stops, a short cab ride, and quick stroll and we’d be at happening party, enjoying barbecue, drinks, watching amazing fire works and hopefully smooching (a word I thought I never use either in speech or writing).

Men, (especially former standup comics) when it comes to beautiful women become show offs, little kids who want to run the fastest, throw the farthest, lift the heaviest, see the most therapists, have the longest anxiety attacks or take the highest dose of antidepressants, thus I bought a hefty twenty-five pound bag of charcoal, thinking our travels would be confined to the city. Now if it wasn’t for the thick humidity, which the current administration was trying to privatize and sell to Pepsi and Coke as A Taste of New York, a refreshing smog flavored beverage aimed for a real man’s flemy pallet, my charcoal bag would have burst into flames and made both of us barbecue (well at least me since she didn’t think we knew each other well enough to have even our shadows touch). Carrying a twenty-five pound bag of smoking charcoal in this heat was like a roasting pig on your shoulder. I tried not to show the pain, did my best to douse the flames, and hide the burn marks on my shirt. Luckily for me there were plenty of places for Helena to see her own reflection in and she didn’t need me to help her talk about herself, so we walked to the train without her noticing my smoldering Hawaiian print (and it charred palm trees).

The train was full, so after paying for both us and a seat for the charcoal, (in which I failed to convince the conductor that I should pay a child’s fare for since the bag was short. He insisted that I pay full price since the charcoal was old enough to be smoking), the ride to Long Island went without further incident.

At one point during the trip she asked me about my new screen play, but before I could tell her anything about it, she said she could read my mind and started performing her part in the musical: a grief stricken beautiful one legged Croatian widow, who thought if she hopped backwards she’d never be close enough for anyone to notice that she had only one leg. She sang several Paleolithic show tunes, dance a lengthy Texas One step, and ended her performance keeping time with a conductors punch while she watched her imaginary elderly roommate do a strip tease to Mel Kiper Jr. giving you his first round NFL picks. Luckily, the train arrived at our stop before she could do an encore where she intended to sing a selection of classical lisp songs.

A small cab prevented her from continuing her performance because she felt that her act takes a back seat to no one. Thank God for Dumb. By the time we exited the cab she’d forgotten about her encore and was now loudly questioning my commitment to her and insisting that by being with her I was only thinking of myself. I wanted to defend myself and say that I was with her, not because she was the only beautiful woman who would ever go out with me (which was the truth), or that I that I’d like being with her even if she was shooting at me, and that I’d be honored to have my name on her restraining order, but instead I shouted, “Even if you were dead I’d still go out with you. In fact I’d dig you up and take your maggot filled bony remains to every twenty-four hour Greek diner in town and order everything on the menu, even the Bison burger deluxe twice and not get mad if you didn’t eat a thing, you wouldn’t leave the tip, or your face rotted on the plate. And then I’d run out on the check carry your dried out carcass back to the grave and bury myself along with you.”

At first she starred at me, taking my words in slowly, (its not easy when most of the English language you’ve heard spoken was out of your own mouth). She turned, opened her eyes wide and said, “That’s the sweetest thing a man carrying charcoal every said to me.” And then came the kiss, not on the lips of course, but it had a lot of tongue, and so what if it was on an elbow, that was close enough, even if it was her own.

We had to walk one short block, since the party was on a one-way street going in the opposite direction, but when we arrived, there was a police barrier. The cop standing guard smiled at Helena, who smiled back and said, “Get out of my way pig!” The cop didn’t expect that coming out of the man swallowing smile of a gorgeous woman and replied. “Uh.uh…uh…that sounds like the password. Go ahead.” And let us in.

Of course, I found out later there wasn’t a password, but Helena, of course claimed she was a psychic genius who does dialects. The party was on the twenty-seventh floor of a high rise, that no matter how high it ever got, the rent would still go through the roof. I was surprised that there wasn’t a doorman, but my heart had a panic attack, anticipating a massive heart attack, when we found out the elevator was out of service.

I should have thrown the charcoal at Helena and ran but instead I hoisted the bag over my shoulder and started to climb, drawn by the fantasy of looking up her dress for twenty-seven flights. For the first three flights my view was better than expected. She had long perfect legs the kind that looked liked she was always wearing high heels and a butt that jumped out like two bouncing soccer balls. By the time we had reached the fourth floor, my butt felt like two medicine balls and my eyes overflowed with so much sweat I could see more if I was looking through a windshield in a car wash. “Come on slow poke,” I heard her say between breaths that I couldn’t move fast enough to catch. I almost fell a few times, once hitting my face on the railing then sliding down a flight on my protruding tongue, which took on a shade of battle ship gray from the drying paint. On the 10th floor I fell when she stopped and I didn’t and bounced off her butt rolled down five steps and belly flopped onto the landing where a broken beer bottle sadistically punched a small hole in the bottom of the bag of charcoal.

The trip to the 27th floor took twice as long as it should have because Helena ordered me to retrieve the charcoal briquettes that kept slipping out of the hole in the bag. I’m not the type of guy who just does what some pretty face with a body who’s language only spoke one four letter word repeatedly, tells me. Nope, I drew a line in my testosorin and on the 25th floor I let the charcoal escape. I don’t think Helena was happy about my defiance but I had my pride and didn’t pick up the briquettes until I had rested for thirty or forty seconds and even then I didn’t scoop up all the ones that I had stepped on and crushed.

The apartment door was open so we took it upon ourselves to enter unannounced, which didn’t seem to disturb anyone since no one was there. Helena was unconcerned, figuring that her hoard of friends were going to barbecue on the terrace so they wouldn’t miss the fireworks display. If two’s company and three’s a crowd then we were a crowd. Sitting on the terrace floor because the pull of gravity seems to grow in proportion to the amount of alcohol that one consumes, was a fat guy, who seemed to widen in layers till his bottom seemed to flatten like wax that melted to the ground. A bottle of beer stuck out of his mouth like it was torpedoed into his face. His eyes, like most males recognized Helena immediately, the rest of him continued to look like it was spilling downward.

“This is my friend, he’s my director. Where’s everyone?” Helena asked the perpetual squatting male flesh, knowing that no man no matter how deteriorated he was would be able to refuse to answer her question.
The guy’s words streamed around the bottle like a leaky valve. “They’re at Frank’s on the fifteenth floor. Apartment 6B as in Bee,” which he cleverly ended with a buzzing sound.
“Great. Let’s go.” Helena shouted as she spun past me and out the door. I thought about staying with the fat flat guy, but there was something about the foam that started drooling out of his mouth and one of his nostrils and both his ears that made me think I was much better off walking or even falling down 12 flights of stairs.

I may not be the sharpest needle sticking in a junkie’s arm, but I knew in my heart of hearts attacks that going down was a lot easier than going up, unless you’re bulimic (which is a push). So I followed Helena, hoping that I could get another good look at her butt because she would fall face first down the 200 or so steps. These weren’t sexist thoughts they were vindictive, homicidal, sadomasochistic fantasy’s spurred on by my growing hatred toward this gorgeous creature who’s shadow was more woman than most men could handle. And the more I despised her the more I knew she was the gal I’ve been looking for all my life, even though she’d rather end my life then spend it with me.

Well, she didn’t fall, which was more than I could say for myself. Unfortunately I missed colliding with Helena and rolled past her finally stopping when my face smacked into the wall on the 10th floor (which in my fuzzy romantic brain I kept thinking that this was “our” floor). I picked up the charcoal which had spilled, wrapped what I could in what was left of the bag, and stuffed the rest in my pockets and into my shirt, then I walked, or more accurately crawled up seven more flights, where Helena was waiting for me rehearsing a Irish Jig version of Madame Butterfly in which she sneezed all the words in falsetto. When I finally applauded and she took her bows, three curtain calls, and wrote her autograph on my shirt in charcoal we proceeded up the hall.

There was music coming from inside apartment 6B as in Bee, so we weren’t at all disturbed when no one answered our knocks. Helena thought since we didn’t want stop anyone’s fun, it would be okay if I kicked in the door. My first dozen or so kicks didn’t break the lock or either of my feet, but pulled a muscle in my leg and widened the whole in on the bottom of my shoe when I missed my target and got my foot stuck on the door knob. Helena, who said she hated my shoes, especially the right one, by now had gotten discouraged. That was before she remembered that in her day job she was a locksmith. Using a set of picks, which she insisted I used first to clean between my teeth, she opened the door.

The apartment would have been empty if it wasn’t for the woman who was trying to remove her boyfriend’s tattoo with a cheese grater. The tattoo matched the one that was on his girlfriend’s cheek, which only destroyed the right side of their faces; still they weren’t a bad looking couple if you didn’t take their looks into consideration.

Helena ignored the guy’s moans and the blood that was spattering into the guacamole. I didn’t want any part of this scene, but Helena thought that after carrying the charcoal I’d be hungry and it would be polite for me to eat at least a few chips full. After she held my nose and I finally swallowed she asked where everyone was. They told us that the party had moved up to the 23rd floor because 2 and 3 added up to five. I couldn’t dispute their math, even though their logic seemed to elude me, so up we went.

I climbed and Helena danced, sang, mimed, and cart wheeled her way up. At this point I didn’t care if I could see up her dress or if her butt clanged to the whole catalogue of Stephan Foster’s songs, except for “I Dream Of Jeanie,” which was my high school fight song. We might not have won any games but we never let any team, no matter how big or intimidating, force us to sing Stephan Foster’s “Way Down Upon The Sewanee River,” or “Oh Susanna” although were willing to hum most of Gershwin’s, “Porgy and Bess.”

Helena made it to the 23rd floor before I did, but this time while she waited she didn’t rehearse because her agent had called and insisted that she sign a contract first.

This time the apartment door was open and there we several varieties of people, a couple of six packs of folks who looked like they had a couple of six packs each, and few guys and gals swollen from over compensation of their dietary needs, a half dozen sticks who looked shrink wrapped from under compensation of their metabolism’s needs, and a mass of humanity crowded so tightly together that their DNA was merging. Helena who announced her presence by pretending to milk a cow, which she cleverly segued into stabbing a famous loan shark, quickly became the life of the party, while I tried to find a barbecue to dump the charcoal in. None of the guests had any idea where it was and apparently the guy who was throwing the party had been sent to the hospital for almost burning his lips off because, he was so high, he thought a the steaming spout of a tea kettle was a water pipe.

In one of the bedrooms, I found a guy who was humping three-dozen hot dog and hamburger buns. I stopped him from doing the doughy deed by asking him where the barbecue is and tossing a few charcoal briquettes at his head. I was looking at him strangely when he told me that he was attracted to bleached wheat products, was in a support group and hadn’t even touched a slice of white bread or walked in the bakery aisle in years, but the sight of all those unattended buns was too much for him. I comforted him by telling him that my best friend had condiment fetish and ruined his marriage over a Heinz squeeze bottle, so who was I to judge. After discussing my own crush on disposable razors and garden sheers I again asked him where the barbecue was. He said that the last he heard was that it was on the 27th floor on the terrace. The guy with the hamburgers and hotdogs went looking for it but never returned or called. Depressed at the thought of climbing more stairs, I started putting the uncrushed buns into their plastic bags when Helena arrived and said to me.“Everyone’s starving. You’re not one of those white bread perverts are you?”
“Of course not. He is,” I said pointing to the man who lowered his head in disgrace.

“I played one of those freaks in an adaptation of The Merchant Of Venice that we changed to take place in a bakery. I was a female Shylock, who was part Jewish and part seedless rye bread, who in our version was being accused of charging too much for a perfect everything bagel (one that he was secretly in love with) and being chided for getting a new electric bread slicer.” I was about to say they didn’t have them back then when she started her monologue. “If you prick us while cutting bread, do we not bleed? If you leave us out, do we not go stale? If you poison us with yeast, do we not rise? And if you eat all our baked goods without paying (even the day old stuff), shall we not seek revenge or call a cop?”

She finally stopped, happy that she had brought the man to tears, and of course waited for my applause. Which I did because at that moment, I realized that she was the most beautiful least talented egocentric psychotic woman I’ve ever seen not in a mental institution, but yet she had something unique about her. I wanted to know what it was and what better way is there to find that out then to use the charcoal to the best of my ability and make her the greatest hamburger this party would ever see, and then maybe she’d open up and let me touch her breasts. I forgot where the door was and was searching for it, when she said.
“What are you looking at, that’s not me?”

Before I could respond, the fire works starting exploding. And she ran out the door. I raced after her. Instead of going onto the terrace with everyone else, she ran out of the apartment, up the stair well and climbed another twenty floors to the roof, screaming “I deserve the very best view!” I followed her, my heart beating louder than the fire works. “Sssssh, can’t you keep you that dam thing quiet for a minute” She yelled to me several times.

When we finally reached the roof, the Sun had gone down, but it didn’t feel any cooler. The humidity was overwhelming, like a demon trying to possess me. I wasn’t sweating I was melting into a puddle. Helena and I were alone on the roof and she was too caught up with the fireworks bursting over and around us to notice she was stepping in me. I looked up and than even I didn’t care if I stepped in me. I’d never seen so many colors, there were even ones that (as a kid) I’d been able to keep within the lines of my coloring book. For a few minutes Helena glowed with excitement and happiness, like she it was all a tribute to her, which I deducted by her wide smile, glistening eyes, and her excited voice, which kept yelling out. “They doing this for me, because I’m so beautiful and wonderful! So much better than everyone one else, especially you!” Unfortunately for me, at that moment, there was lull in the fire works display and she went on a downward spiral. “Why couldn’t you do something like this for me! You call yourself a director! You don’t love me! You never did! You just wanted me so I could act in your stupid movies! And where the hell is my hamburgers, I’m starved. Go make me one right now!”

That’s when it happened. I was drawn to Helena, like I was being sucked into a jet engine. I splashed into her with the force of a fire hose sending both of us to the edge of the building, where she teetered long enough to put on lipstick and eyeliner and then over she went! Luckily for me, at the last second she was able to kick me in the groin, knocking me backwards. I ran to the ledge holding my family costume jewels expecting to see her skirt being pulled off by gravity and the thick humidity slowing her decent long enough to get a last look at her legs and see her butt bouncing along the ground till all her curves flattened and her once voluptuous shape was now a thin line, instead I saw her fingers holding on, her other hand reaching for me yelling. “Hurry before I lose a nail.”

As I bent down to take hold of her hand there was an explosion, the fireworks scattered above us, the sky bursting, pulsating, scared with glittering rainbows. When I looked down she had lifted her hand off the wall pointing to the grand finale. “They must really love me.”

I reached and at the last moment caught her right hand and then she grabbed my wrist with her left. “I still won’t consider this holding hands.” I didn’t have time to debate the point, the humidity had made my skin as slippery as an agent’s tongue, and she slid off.

I watched her descend, gravity pulling her skirt, not off but up, so it covered her face, which was still screaming. “Some date, you are. Don’t call me again charcoal boy!” Right before she hit the ground feet first, (her butt for once didn’t bounce) I heard her yell, “I just got these shoes.”

I was leaving the roof when I noticed I had a charcoal briquette caught under my belt, so I walked back to the ledge leaned over and dropped it, watching it land in what was left of her wide open mouth. Call it lucky. Call me a liar. I call it fate.