FIREMAN
We begin with two lovers: a man and a woman, in bed and in love. The man is handsome; the woman is beautiful. His eyes are brown, hers are blue; both are quite striking, both draw stares from strangers on the street. She is a neuroscientist; he is a fireman with a Medical Master's Degree in Microbiology and Immunology. They both think "Immunology" is a strange looking word. They both like to play Scrabble and Monopoly. They both dislike chess. The man is married to a nondescript woman in her thirties who sells cosmetics at the Galleria mall; he dislikes the shade of her lipstick, and the shape of her feet. The woman is married to a poet. She dislikes the words he uses, like "platitudinous," and "medulla." The time is late night. They have just seen a movie, a teen flick neither one of them understood. They left before it ended. They are in a hotel room, kissing. They are interrupted by what they think is a knock on the door. They are both startled. No one knows they are there. The fireman hastily tries to put on his shoes. "You should put your pants on first," says the woman. The fireman looks for his underwear, tries to shush the woman. He is wearing one shoe and one sock, both on the same foot. "Be quiet," he says in a loud whisper. "It must be my mother." The woman seems confused. "I thought you said your mother was dead," she says. The fireman ignores what the woman has said. "Whoever it was," he says, "I think they are gone."
We end the next day: the woman is looking at a slide of T-cells; her husband calls and says, "We need to talk." The woman is not surprised. Her husband is a poet. He is very sensitive. Of his frequent phrases, "We need to talk" is his favorite. She says she will meet him at the McDonalds near her building at twelve, but she can't stay long. She is busy. She has an important job. At lunch, he begins the conversation. I found the most interesting phrase in a book this morning," he says, "inland city, isn't it beautiful?" The woman asks if this is why he wanted to see her. Tell me you think it's beautiful," he says. She does so, rolling her eyes. She grabs the edges of her tray, she has finished her Fillet-of-Fish with cheese and she is ready to go back to work. He grabs her wrist. "I know about him," he says. The woman shrugs. If the poet will give her a divorce, she will marry the fireman. The poet laughs. Does she think she will be happy with a fireman? The woman says she can be happy with anyone, but the fireman has professed his love, and she has done the same. The poet says it was once him she professed to love. The woman looks at the wrapper on her tray. "Fish is a strange looking word," she says, "don't you think?" The poet says it is a common word, and walks away. Later that night he writes a poem about his wife and titles it "Fillet-of-Fish"; he is dissatisfied with the result and throws it in the trash.