He arrived back at the hotel at nine.  Midnight in Connecticut, still time to call his wife.  He picked up the phone, dialed room 144, instead.   He listened to five long rings as he paced the deodorized carpet of his junior-suite.  Then:

“Hello,” she said, sounding confident that whomever was calling would say something she wanted to hear.

“Hey...I met your dog...Abe.  Abe and you.  This morning outside the...”

“Hey!  I’m dripping wet from the shower,” she said, like it was good news.  “Hold on while I put on a robe.”

Evan had just enough time to picture her naked and wet, when she came back to the phone and said: “So how are you feeling?”

“Better.  A lot better.”  He picked up the complimentary In-Room-Care-Package from the kitchenette counter, peered through the cellophane envelope: four Tylenol, four adhesive bandages, two Sudafed, two Alka Seltzer tablets, and one latex condom.  “I was thinking about having a drink at the bar.”

“Unproductive thinking.  Bar’s closed...private party.”

“Well, that’s hardly fair,” he said, stepping outside onto the terrace.  “The lock on my minibar’s busted and they won’t stock it until it’s fixed.”

“My minibar’s jam-packed.  Come down to my room in fifteen minutes.”

Then, she hung up.

Evan felt a rush of energy, like he’d just had a triple latte if a triple latte didn’t make his hands shake.  In the distance, he could see Kleg lights raking the sky over the Hollywood hills––a movie premiere maybe, or a nightclub opening––the beginning of something new for someone