Maude Larke

"Are you kidding, Councilman Reynolds?"

The voice dances over the almost-familiar buzz of the newsroom, the police scanner, the TVs. I look up from the obit I'm typing. It could turn into a weekend feature if I do it right; I could get a byline. The dead guy owned some fancy store in our dying downtown. It's nowhere I shop. They don't sell my cute broomstick skirts.

"Councilman, I'm not retracting anything." It's Sean, the city government reporter. He's grinning and scribbling on my canary legal pad that he borrowed yesterday. I suspect he's not taking notes, but drawing dirty pictures.

"What you said is in the minutes of the meeting, Councilman!" He leans back in his chair; his chestnut curls fall away from his face. He chews an unlit Salem Light, biting back laughter. He could laugh, light the cigarette. He can do whatever he wants; he's a really good writer.

He sees me staring and winks. It's not the first time he's caught me.

I look down at my calendar, willing myself to melt into the serifed letters and numbers that chart life's days and weeks, wondering again what I want from 1993.

"Councilman, call my editor. Gum up his afternoon."

I can't believe he said that! I never know what to say to anyone because I feel like I'll say something stupid.

"Claire."

I look up.

"Let's get lunch, lady."

"What about deadline?"

"I don't feel like reporting. Help me drink something pretty. It'll be our secret."