He should've lied through his teeth. Told me he was dismantling bombs. That he had to have his gallbladder out. That he had tickets to take Adam to the Mets.

She leaned against the phone stall for a moment, looking at the graffiti sprayed on the clear glass sides of the booth. A motorcycle went past. A voice called, “Wanna ride?” But the Honda didn't slow down.

Sweat ran, tickling in streams down her face. She wiped it away and walked west toward the river. She stepped in a blob of tar that grabbed her shoe. It came away with thick black strings attached.

Rune sighed and sat down on the curb, wiping off what she could.

Picnic, she was thinking. Beach. Mountains.

He could have told me he had a headache. Or he got a stomach flu.

Talk about their situation...

Dump her, Healy, Rune thought. She's no good for you.

She knew, though, where it would end up.

He'd go back to the wife.

It was so hyperobvious. Back to Cheryl, with her daisy contact paper. Cheryl, with her white silk blouses and big boobs. The Darling-I'm-making-eggplant-casserole-for-the-Andersons Cheryl. Who was probably a perfectly fine person and who only walked out after he refused her tearful and perfectly reasonable request to get out of bomb detail.

She'd be decent, sweet, a good person. A perfect mother.

How I hate her...

Rune had canceled the restaurant interview, thinking she'd be on her way to the beach. She didn't have any money to work on her film. She was stuck in deserted New York over a blistering hot August weekend. And her only boyfriend was going to shack up with his wife that night.

Aw, Sam...

It was then that she glanced up to a storefront window and saw an old sign, faded and warped, that advertised tax return preparation by a CPA.

Rune looked at the sign, smiled, and said, “Thank you, Lord.”

She stood up and left black footprints of tar all the way back to the phone.

Rune opened the door of her houseboat and let Warren Hathaway, carrying several beach bags, inside. In sports clothes — shorts, a dark green Izod shirt and tennies — he was much less of a nerd than he had been in the suit.

“Hey, Warren, you're looking pretty crucial.”

“Crucial?”

“Jazzed? You know, cool.”

“Well, thanks.” Hathaway laughed.

“You like?” Rune did a pirouette. She wore a miniskirt and red tank top over her bikini.

“You're looking pretty crucial yourself. What are those on your skirt? Electric eels?”

She looked down at the squiggly lines radiating from larger squiggly lines. “It's from South America. I think they're landing pads for spaceships.”

“Ah. Spaceships, sure.”

Rune slung her leopard-skin bag over her shoulder and locked the front door.