You toss your keys onto the dining table, switch on the light, pull out a chair and drop onto its seat. You flick off your shoes, raise your legs and lay them on the table's edge. You leaf through a pile of mail. Same old bills, same old ads.

You chuck the mail beside the keys, dig out a pack of cigarettes from your purse and light one. A cloud of smoke engulfs the chandelier above the table. You drag another puff and look down at the envelopes that are fanned out like a deck of playing cards. What's this? You pull out a pink and white flyer that peeks between the other cards. 'A Makeover', the add reads, followed by, 'Spice your life for half the price'.

Hmmm. Yes. You envision a new hairdo. Layered, short, and perky. A little eyeliner and subtle rouge. A low-cut blouse and knee-high skirt. And perhaps silk undergarment. Yes. Half the price would sure be nice.

Another smoke cloud is sucked up toward the chandelier's heat where abstract figures dance as the puff diffracts against invisible dust particles and morphs into forms embellished by your own imaginings.

He arrives with flowers in hand then tosses them aside, a declaration that those were but formality, props for a staged entrance with the real act to follow. His eyes are shy but his smirk confident. He is transfixed by your makeover. He doesn't speak as he reaches for your hand and you follow his lead. You rise and he wraps you into his arms.

He arrives with nothing in hand but keys that he tosses next to yours. He complains about the goddamn traffic and heads for the refrigerator. He pulls out a beer, loosens his belt to allow his belly to curl above it, then asks what's for supper.

You crunch the flyer in your fist, pitch it over your shoulder, select another card and tell him his guess is as good as yours.