She didn't intend her life to be violent. She certainly didn't intend to die violently. But Shelly Lowe was an addict — addicted to the power that the films she made brought her, addicted to that raw urge that perhaps all artists feel to expose herself, in every sense, to her audiences.

And just like for all addicts, Shelly ran the risk that that power would overwhelm her.

She understood that risk, and she didn't back away from it. She met it and she lost. Caught between art and lust, between beauty and sex, Shelly Lowe died.

Carved into her simple grave in a small cemetery in Long Island, New York, is the single line: “She lived only for her art,” which seems a fitting epitaph for this blue movie star.

FADE OUT To:

CREDITS...

“What do you think?” Rune asked Sam Healy.

“You wrote that?”

Rune nodded. “It took me a hundred tries. Is it too, you know, flowery?”

Healy said, “I think it's beautiful.” He put his arm around her. “Is it ready to go?”

“Not hardly.” Rune laughed. “I've got to find a professional announcer to do the voice-over, then spend about three weeks editing it all together and cutting about ten hours of tape down to twenty-eight minutes. Shooting was the fun part. Now the work begins... Hey, Sam, I was thinking. Anybody ever done a documentary about the Bomb Squad?”

He kissed her neck. “Why don't you call in sick today. We can talk about it.”

She kissed him quickly, then rolled out of bed. “I'm already in the doghouse with Larry and Bob. I didn't bring in fresh croissants the other morning.”

"This is for House O' Leather? Is that name for real?

I just make the commercials. I'm not responsible for the client's poor taste."

She finished her coffee. She sensed him looking at her. No, it was more of a stare.

No, it was worse than that; it was one of those sappy gazes that men give women occasionally — when they get overcome with this feeling, which they think is love though it usually means they're horny or guilty or feeling insecure. You can die of suffocation under one of those gazes.

Rune said, “Gotta go.” And started toward the door with a coquettish smile that sometimes had the effect of throwing cold water on men who were sloppy drunk on love.

“Hey,” he said in a low way that made him sound like a cop.

I'm not going to stop. Keep it cool. Keep the distance.

There's no hurry.

“Rune.”

She stopped.

What I'll do is wink at him, on my way out the door, all flirty and bitchy.

“Come here for a minute.”

Wink, girl. Come on.

But instead she walked back to him slowly. Deciding that she wasn't really that late...

Rune sensed it the moment she walked into the office, and what she noticed was not a good feeling.