Snowflakes, settling in her hair, went from white to silver to clear, then disappeared, leaving dark hues in the browny-red waves that spilled over her collar. She double-locked the door, deposited the keys in her purse, turned and shouted, "be right there."

The thin, young man with a mop of dirty blond hair standing beside the passenger door of the idling Chevy Nova smiled and waved, indicating he'd heard her just fine. She waved back then spread her arms wide like a tightrope walker and descended the brick steps. Ice that had formed overnight in the mortar joints cracked in fine feathery cadence. Dry snow swept along by the shifting currents of wind spun all around her like cooling ash. The young man watched in silence, seeing her safely to the freshly shoveled sidewalk. His heart raced. Beautiful. How long had it been since ---

Our first date. It began as a favor for a friend. Really a blind date. We saw a movie. Sean Connery was in it, but I can't remember the name. Afterwards we stopped for drinks and we talked about the things people talk about in bars. I drove her home. She invited me in for coffee. We sat at the kitchen table, wedged between the refrigerator and the edge of the countertop .The water boiled, the steam whistled.

"I was getting so worried Matt," she said as she approached. "The radio said that the roads were icing over. Do you think it's safe to drive?"

He accepted a quick kiss and shrugged. "Looks all right to me. The plows are out and there's plenty of salt down on the highway."

He opened the car door and she slide in. He ran to the drivers side, jumped behind the wheel and gunned the engine. She flipped the visor down and glancing in the mirror brushed aside a lock of hair. She unbuttoned her ankle-length wool coat. Beneath it she wore a plaid mini - dress with a beige sweater and a wide brown belt. He could see her thigh shiver.

"You cold, Denise?" he asked, trying not to stare.

"Just a little."

He adjusted the fan and a blast of warm air erupted from the dash vents. He accelerated up to the speed limit then backed off about ten percent. She inched closer. "So - what time's the Christmas party?"

He shrugged. "Around three, I guess. It's really not a Christmas party. It's just that Brian, the guy I told you about, anyway his boss is leaving for this holiday cruise in the Bahamas or something, so Brian is throwing this bon voyage bash. I think he did it last year too. Besides Christmas is still two weeks away."

"Whatever. I'm sure it's going to be fun, Matt. Am I dressed okay?"

"You look great," he answered. "Ever been to Staten Island before?"

"I don't think so."

"That's where we're headed. We take the parkway to the bridge, second exit and we're there. An hour, tops."

"Staten Island," she said, letting the last two syllables drag, "didn't you say you went to school there or something?"

"I went to a basketball clinic for two summers while I was in high school. My coach made me go even though I could have gone to one at Queens College. This one was supposed to be the best. Anyway Brian was this hot shot player at the time and he lived about a half-mile from the junior college where the camp was being run. We got to be friends and I ended up staying at his house during second summer instead of the ratty dorms. Slept on the couch in the basement but I saved a ton of money. We had some free time most afternoons so me, Brian and this other kid, Tommy Noonan, started this half-assed landscape business. Spent most of the profits but at least I could pay for my textbooks. Brian and Tommy - they each got scholarships so they blew their share on a trip to Vegas - the bastards."

"So, I finally get to meet all these basketball jocks you're always talking about."

"They'll all be there."

She put her hand on his knee. "I'm sure I'll like your friends, Matt. Do you think they'll like me?"

"They're going to love you. But just watch yourself, these guys are all animals."

She leaned in close. "What about you? Are you an animal too?"

He swung his head around, kissed the back or her neck and growled.

She giggled. "I think you're the one that needs watching."

She snuggled in close and rested her head on his shoulder. She turned the volume up on the radio. Don McLean was singing American Pie; an almost breathless effusion of Rock and Roll allegories. Denise with her head still on his shoulder sang along; "… I meet a girl for who sang the blues and I asked her for some happy news ... but she just smiled and turned away." She felt him laugh and poked his ribs. "Stop laughing at me. I love this song. It's so sad and, I don't know, evocative. You know?"

"I wasn't laughing.".

"I could feel your stomach jumping."

"Sorry," he lied. He looked down at the top of her head where her chestnut hair parted in an incredibly straight line as white as chalk. He loved to hear her scold him like this, the tease in her voice, words spilling from her lips like notes from a flute.

Gradually the parkway rose up, supported by steel trestles. The wind blew harder and he griped the wheel with both his hands. Beneath them on the service road cars, busses, trucks and vans, which were not permitted on the parkway, crawled along the pitted streets of Brighton Beach. To the south were two towering gas tanks with heavy steel ribs that make them look like giant rusted tomato cans. Behind the tanks was Coney Island. It was closed for the winter, of course. Matt pointed to the Cyclone, the famous roller coaster that rose above the park like a mountain range with snow capped peaks and icy ridges of rotting wood and rusting steel. "See, over there - rode that fourteen times in a row two summers ago," he told her. Next to it was the parachute ride, a weird thin toadstool. He said softly: "Man, Brooklyn." The parkway finally began to descend back to street level curving around Sheepshead Bay. The ocean boiled white and gray up along the seawall that ran parallel to the parkway. The sky, which in the morning had been ghostly white, now looked black and purple like an enormous bruise. The snow had stopped falling but the temperature continued to drop. To the north they could see rows of pink-bricked apartment buildings. Grids of Christmas lights outlined a few of the windows like electric gift boxes. Here and there a Menorah candle blinked behind an oily shade or lace curtain.

"What do they say?" Matt asked rhetorically. "Only the dead know Brooklyn?" He glanced over to see if Denise heard him. "Who said that? Norman Mailer? Tom Wolfe?"

"Thomas Wolfe," she said.

"That's what I said, didn't I ?"

"You said - oh, never mind."

He caught sight of the sign he had been looking for: FORT HAMILTON, NEXT RIGHT. He flipped on the blinker and pointed. "See up ahead - there, the Verrazano Bridge. Pretty cool, huh?"

The two upper legs of the huge H- shaped tower on the Staten Island side could be seen floating behind shifting layers of gray clouds.

"Wow," said Denise. "Can you believe it, all these years and I've never even seen the bridge before."

"You're kidding."

"I've hardly ever even been to Brooklyn. Well, once with the swim team, but I went straight from the subway to the indoor pool."

"Wait till you see it at night when they light up those cables," he said, not exactly sure if what he was saying was true. He tried to remember the last time he drove over the bridge at night but drew a blank. He decided to hit her with the story he had planned to save for the drive home. Maybe she'd forget about the lights.

"You know," he began, "when they were building this bridge some guy fell into one of those towers just as they were pouring in all this cement and stuff. By the time anyone realized what had happened he was already buried under tons of concrete. So they figured, what the hell? And just kept right on working."

She didn't say anything so he continued with the same story his father always told during their Sunday drives to his grandmother's house on Shore Road. "When the bridge was finished, they put this plaque right over the spot where he took the dive."

"Am not," he shot back. "So wha'da'ya think, did he get the biggest headstone in the world or what?" She slapped his arm. "You're terrible."

"Hey, it's what I heard."

As they crossed the center of the bridge the wind kept nudging his small car toward the guardrail so he stayed in the far left lane. He paid the toll on the Staten Island side and tossed the receipt into the ashtray.

"How far now?" said Denise.

"About fifteen minutes and we'll be there. The station's up on Grant Road. Just a few miles."

"The station?"

"Yeah, the gas station, where they're throwing the party."

"It's at a gas station?"

"A Mobil station. You know, service with a smile. Why?"

She sighed. "Nothing."

"Com'on. What?"

"I don't know. It's just that I thought this was some sort of fancy office party or big company type-thing. You told me on the phone we were going to this big annual affair, and that all your friends would be there… So I bought this new outfit and had my hair done. I wanted to look nice."

He touched her hair. "I told you. Ya' look great."

"I just wish you would have said something. I - "

"Hey, I'm sorry okay. What difference does it make, anyway."

She forced a smile. "It's fine I guess." They stopped while a light changed. "… just, I don't know, a gas station ...."

Matt spotted the red Pegasus slowly turning above a sea of cars.

"We're here," he said, and found a place to park. "We going in?"

She exhaled and began buttoning her coat. "I guess … let's go meet the guys."

They walked though a maze of old tires stacked head high then around to the front of the office. Across the office window someone had scrawled in yellow finger paint: Holiday Special, Tune Up Only $29.99. Rock music thundered behind the glass.

Matt opened the door and heard: "Yo Deuce! Yo Deuce!"

Denise, tilting her head, said, "Deuce?"

"Yeah, that's me. You know two points - deuce. That's what a field goal is worth in basketball."

She reached up and took his face between her palms and kissed him.

The taunts grew even louder: "Deuce ... Deuce ... Deuce...."

When she finally drew away he stepped back and looked into her eyes. His heart melted. He grabbed hold of her hand and they made their way to the rear of the office. Denise kept poking him saying, "Yo, Deuce ... Yo Deuce ...."

He scanned the smoky room for some familiar faces, but didn't find any. He took her coat and tossed it along with his next to an old mechanical cash register that had once been gold but now looked like it had been dipped in brown mustard.

"Matt, damn it. Over here, man!."

He spotted Brian over near an STP Oil display. He was dressed in his typical work cloths; blue jacket, blue pants and a red Mobil cap that made his narrow face appear even longer and thinner. Brian had been six foot- four since Matt had met him and weighed the same 180 pounds that he did in high school. He looked, as everyone agreed, like a beanpole with ears.

"Be right over, man," Matt shouted.

While they made their way across the room Matt felt a hand grip his shoulder from behind.

"Well look who's here everyone - the loser from Long Island."

"Hey Tommy," Matt said, recognizing his scratchy voice. "How's it going." He half turned and put out his hand but Tommy sucker-punched his arm.

"Doing great," said Tommy. "Surprised you can still find you way here." Tommy's face had been severely scared by acne when he was younger and his skin was faintly carrot-colored owing to the heavy layer of medicated cream he applied every morning. Matt fought the urge to punch his marbled nose.

"How's things at your no account college?" Tommy taunted. "You still warming the bench?"

"I'm getting some play," Matt replied. "What about you?"

"Starting, buddy, starting." He spun sideways. "So who do we have here? Another sympathetic cousin out with poor old Matt for the day?"

"Denise," she said, extending a hand.

"Denise, nice to meet'ya," he said, giving her the once over. "So where'd you come across Matt, here? St. Johns?"

"No, I go to Columbia. Matt and I met on a blind date of all things. He was so cute. I decided to overlook the fact that all he talked about for the entire evening was basketball."

"He's soooo ... cuuuute ....." Tommy snickered.

Brian walked by and pushed two cans of beer into Matt's hand. "Be right back."

Matt popped the top on one can and offered it to Denise. She shook her head. He took a gulp and tossed the extra can into the cooler.

"So Denise," Tommy continued. "What's your major?"

"I'm not sure just yet. Right now anthropology. But that may change."

"Why is it," Tommy asked his inattentive audience, "that every girl I ever talk to is majoring in anthropology. Is there something about cavemen that fascinate them?"

"How about you?" she prodded.

"Me? Law. Pre-law."

"You mean pre-K, don't you Noonan," said a tall boy with flaming red hair and large white buck teeth. Everyone called him Jethro but no one was sure if the name was based on the rock band or the hillbilly television character.

"Up yours Jethro," Tommy spat out.

Brian came back into the room through the attached garage door. He took a beer from the cooler, drained the can, and dragged an oily sleeve across his mouth. He inched his way in between Tommy and Denise.

"Hi," he said, "Brian." He shook her hand. "You must be Denise."

"In the flesh."

He glanced down at the hem of her short dress that stopped a good eight inches above her knees. "Almost… so, has Brian here introduced you to all the boys?"

Tommy broke in. "She's met me. I'm the only boy she needs to be introduced to."

There was a burst of howls and jeers.

"What a shame," cooed Denise. "I'm afraid I've outgrown boys. I prefer men." Then looking over at Brian and Matt, "tall men."

"You! Are a freaking stud!" Jethro screamed in Tommy's face.

Tommy sank back into the crowd. "What do you expect? Columbia girls ... they live in a fantasy world."

Brian, said, "Columbia, huh?"

"Well," Denise replied. "A girl's got to get an ed-ju-kay-shun somewhere, right?"

"Oh no," he groaned. "Another overachiever".

"Just trying to stay out of the typing pool."

Brian drained his can of beer, squeezed it and sent it sailing in a perfect arch into the oil drum that served as a trash can. He wandered over to the beat up desk from which Joe, his boss, managed his empire. He surveyed his cache of bottles. "Let's see here, we've got beer - domestic and imported - wine, some gin. Baileys." He snatched up a bottle. "Denise? Baileys?"

"Nothing for me, thank you," she called back.

You gotta have a drink," he insisted. "It's Christmas."

"I really don't care for anything, Brian."

"Okay, okay," he said, "Just trying to be a good host."

Matt left Denise with Tommy and made his way around the room. It was even more crowded then when they'd arrived. He nodded at a few familiar faces but couldn't put any names to them. He came across one other girl dressed in torn jeans and a halter top who was sitting on a stack of batteries surrounded by a bunch of biker-types. What the hell is wrong with Brian, he thought, pushing through the heaving tide of beer bellies. He knew I was serious about this girl. He goes and invites me to this lame party knowing it was gonna be a bunch of greasers and local booze hounds - dumb jocks. He began to feel a familiar ache deep in his gut; desperation. Son of a bitch, he said to himself. She bought a new outfit for this? Is she dressed up enough? That's a laugh. He pushed through a knot of people who were watching a football game on a small black and white TV and went to look for Denise.

He found her still talking to Tommy. "You okay," he asked, hooking an arm around her waist. He could see tiny beads of perspiration dotting her forehead, just below her limp bangs. Nodding, she wiped her nose with a tissue.

Just then Brian barged through the office door and stood in the doorway. "Look at this," he shouted, waving a bill in the air. "Some guy gave me a five dollar tip, just for checking his oil. Man I love Christmas."

"Cheap bastard," someone shouted.

He stuffed the bill in his shirt pocket and celebrated with a fresh beer.

"Not too shabby, huh Matt?"

"Great."

"How'bout that drink, Denise," he asked, his spirits noticeably buoyed by his sudden good fortune.

"Brian, please, I would appreciate it if you would stop offering me drinks. Okay? I just don't feel like drinking right now. I'm really beginning to feel a little woozy." She finished folding the used tissue. "You had better tuck that bill into you pocket a little better or you'll loose it."

He looked down at his shirt pocket and saw the bill hanging half out. "Oh yeah, thanks. Five bucks is five bucks, right?"

"Well, I'm sure you can use it. Who knows, you may want to buy your own gas station someday."

"Ha!" said Tommy. "He'll have to learn the difference between a spark plug and a spare tire if he wants to run his own business." He turned to Brian. "You should have stayed in school, man. The world needs more PE teachers."

"You quit school?" Denise asked. "Matt said you had a scholarship. I thought this was part time."

Brian sipped his beer. "Lost it. What can I do?"

"I didn't mean it that way. I just thought -."

He sat on a folding chair near the cooler. "Here," he said, "look at this." He pulled up the left leg of his work pants. A crescent shaped scar curved around his knee and ended at the middle of his shin. With his index finger he pushed against the kneecap until it was completely dislodged from its socket. He rolled it around the swollen joint. He pulled his finger away and the kneecap snapped back, bobbing around like a bar of soap in a bucket of water. "It's shot. They won't even operate anymore. The tendons are shot."

"I told you to talk to a counselor," Matt offered. "There's tons of loan money available. They practically throw it at you."

He rolled down his pants leg. "Screw it, this place ain't so bad. You wouldn't believe what Joe pulls in during a good week."

"You would really do this for the rest of your life?" said Denise.

"Sure." He stood and stamped on the floor as if testing his leg. "I'm not ashamed of what I do. I'm a grease monkey. So what?"

"Sorry, I wasn't trying to imply anything."

"Yeah, sure."

"Hey com'on Brian, she didn't mean nothing," said Matt. "If anything she just thinks you shoulda stayed in school. Everyone does."

Brian flipped open the cooler and peered inside. "Beer's getting low. Who's up for a beer run? Matt?"

"I don't know Brian, where you going?"

He zipped up his blue jacket. "Just down the block to the deli. Come on and give me a hand." He disappeared out the door.

Matt watched the door swing shut and began swearing to himself. His heart was beating like a conga drum. What had gone wrong? This was supposed to be a great day. His best friend. His new girlfriend. A couple of his old basketball buddies.

"I'll be right back," he said to Denise, putting on his jacket.

"Wait a minute," she snapped. "I'm going with you. I don't think I can take another minute in here. All this smoke. I feel sick. God, I thought these people were supposed to be athletes or something." He found her coat and helped her on with it. "Just let me run into the restroom for a sec."

"Okay," he said, heading out the door. "Meet you outside."

The air that hit him was bitter cold and smelled of petrochemicals and decaying rubber. He saw Brian over by the pumps, checking the new nozzles to make sure they hadn't iced shut or anything. He walked over and watched as Brian grabbed each one and snapped the trigger a couple of times. Matt stood beside him "So, what d'ya think, she everything I said?"

"Absolutely," said Brian. "You can't go out and buy legs like that, not like you can a huge rack."

"Yeah," Brian agreed, a little uncomfortable.

"Don't know if I impressed her much, though."

"Hey, forget it man, she didn't mean anything. You're the one that brought up that grease monkey stuff."

"Yeah sure, look you're the one she's gotta like, right"

"I guess. Listen, know what I did? I sent her a dozen roses - for no reason. Just stopped at the florist on my way to pick her up. Cost me thirty six bucks."

"Huummm ... what'd she say?"

"Oh, I didn't give them to her. I had'em deliver them. They're supposed to get to her house this afternoon. More dramatic that way, right?"

"Sounds serious, hot shot."

"We'll see."

"Yo! Brian! Matt!" It was Tommy. He had his jacket half-on and was trotting out of the office door.

"Wait up you guys." Denise was right behind him. Her coat was unbuttoned and her bare legs flashed inside the front seam. Tommy stopped and patted his pockets. "Oh shit, forgot my gloves"

"Forget the damn gloves," said Brian. "We're just going a block."

Denise took Matt's hand and they started off toward the store. They walked carefully, picking their way over the cracked and uneven sidewalk where elm and oak roots had ruptured the concrete. Brian fell in beside Matt and said, "So you're stopping by the house right? I'm going to close up at six and we can all head over. Jerry's home on leave. You can say hello. You probably haven't seen him since he used to drive us to practice, huh?"

Denise tightened her grip on Matt's arm. "We really have to get going soon Brian. Matt and I have plans for tonight."

"You're kidding," Brian moaned, slowing the pace. "Geez Matt... you haven't been over here in what? A year?"

Tommy added, "Yeah, everyone's going down to McCabe's to catch the game later."

Matt shot Denise a glance and said, "Maybe we can stick around for a little while, I mean we drove all the way out here."

"No, Matt, you promised we'd try that new restaurant off the parkway. The one with the funny German name."

"Yeah, I know but -"

"It was your idea, remember! Besides, I can't go back to that disgusting station. I still feel sick from all that smoke and gas fumes."

Brian mumbled: "give me a break."

"Can't we just leave Matt, please," she pleaded.

Brian planted himself in front of them. "What's the matter Denise?" he hollered above the wind. "We ain't good enough for you? Afraid a little grease might rub off on you?"

Her bottom lip seemed to curl in and her features hardened until her face looked as white and smooth as plaster. She glance over at Tommy then turned to Brian. For a moment they just glared at one another. Brian sniffed and gulped the air. Denise, looking straight into his eyes, said: "Fuck you."

Everyone froze. Matt's stomach heaved. He tasted acid; the same sharp, metallic sting as when he was a kid and he'd test a transistor battery by touching it to his tongue. "What the hell did you say that for?"

Brian just stood there, this fingers tightening into a fist, all red and scabbed. For a second Matt thought someone would just apologize and everything would be forgotten. But no one spoke up. He shook Denise's arm loose and looked into her eyes; what he saw looked at first like resolution. He knew better though. He knew what he was really seeing was indifference.

"Shall we go now?" she said flatly.

"No! No, we can't go! Not until we - ."

"Now," she demanded, "or I've got the exact same thing to say to you."

Tommy began laughing hysterically. The bastard, thought Matt, he's loving this.

"Shut the hell up," Brian shouted at Tommy. "This ain't funny."

Matt's mind raced .He thought about telling Brian off for screwing up his relationship with his new girlfriend. Then he thought about his friend, his one really true friend and he thought about just giving it back to her - fuck you, bitch. Just say it to her.

But he didn't. Instead he took her arm and began walking back to the station.

- - - - - - - - - - -

The sky was starless and the moon low on the horizon. Denise sat in stony silence for the entire drive home. When they reached her house she simply got out and walked to the door. Matt watched from the car. She fumbled with the keys. Christmas light winked along the eves and around the windows. He saw her turn the key. He saw her open the door. When she didn't turn to look back he hit the gas and drove home.

He rushed upstairs to the bedroom he shared with his younger brother. Luckily no one saw him come in and the room, for a change, was empty. He stretched out on the bottom berth of the two-tier bunk bed his father had built the year his baby sister was born. It was constructed from a set of plans bought from American Carpentry and Woodworking. It had taken his father four months to build, working evenings and weekends. Each of the four posts that supported the two mattresses was constructed of four two-by-sixes glued together and sanded so fine that it was hard to tell you weren't looking at solid wood. Matt stared up at the gray metal frame that sat on two narrow strips of beveled oak supporting the upper mattress. About three year ago the frame had mysteriously come crashing down in the middle of the night. A thin strand of wire had cut his ear but otherwise he was unhurt. The heavy angle iron that formed the perimeter of the frame had missed his forehead by less then an inch.

Hearing the crash his father had rushed into the room just as Matt and his brother crawled from the wreckage. He stood in the doorway and watched Matt's mother bandage his bleeding ear. Sleeping bags were dug out of the closet and the two boys slept next to the tangled heap of polished wood, mattresses and metal. In the morning his father returned with a paper sack full of nails from Union Hardware.

"Come on boys," he bellowed from the doorway. "Let's get the lead out. You don't want to sleep on the floor again, do you?"

The boys kicked the musty bags aside and twisted the kinks from their limbs. His father spilled the nails onto the desktop.

"Matt, go look for that damn hammer for me. Never know where you kids might put it down. Never around when you need it. Davey, you grab hold that end over there. Sonofabitch coulda killed your brother."

Matt returned with the hammer that had been left beneath the stairs next to an aborted science project - a homemade incubator. He and his brother held the metal frame square as his father drove four sixteen - penny nails into each post, splintering much of the finely carved detail and bruising the wood's polished grain. Using the claw end he then bent each nail around the spring's frame before hammering home the wide pancake heads, burying them deep into the wood. "That oughta hold her," he said and slammed the last nail in so deep a corner of the post split right off.

Matt was still inspecting the nails and poking the frame with the toe of his boot, when he heard his mother call: "Matthew! Maaa - theuu! Are you up there?"

He swung a leg off the bed and kicked the door open. "What?"

"We're leaving now. Are you coming?"

"I can't. I have to study."

"We'll only be gone an hour. Uncle Ben is not well, you know."

"Mom, I've got to study."

"All right," she conceded. "But make sure you put an extra sweater or something on if you go back out. I know the thermometer says it's in the twenties but with the wind chill, they say it feels like below zero."

"I will."

"Oh, and your father said someone's been calling for you. The number is on the fridge."

"Who called?" he shouted.

No answer.

He took a deep breath and shouted again, "who was it that called?"

He heard the front door slam closed. He looked up at the nails again. Over the years they had lost their galvanized finish and were freckled with rust. All had become loose, due to years of tossing and turning by the upper bunk's occupant. He could see shiny slices of silver on their insides where the metal angle rubbed against them. He drew up his knees and kicked with both feet. The frame rattled inside the loose nails.

He propped his head up and looked around the room. Next to the bed was an oak desk with a small lamp. Draped across back of the desk chair was an assortment of knotted ties his younger brother was required to wear to high school. The wide Windsor knots which had been carefully tied by their father the first day of school had been pulled so tight that they were now the size of plum pits. Tacked above the desk were the four pictures of the Beatles - the ones that came in the White Album. They're gone now, he thought, at least the band is; one dead, the other two fading into obscurity, all the while fighting over songs, royalties, x-wives. Nothing lasts, he thought. Sooner or later everything comes crashing down on you.

He picked up the old phone he'd inherited when his grandmother died. It was one of those old rotary types; big, black and as heavy as an iron skillet. His father was going to throw it out but Matt had convinced him that putting a phone in his bedroom would help discourage him and his brother from bounding up and down their badly battered staircase. Over the years he'd resisted replacing it with a newer model because he loved the riff of loud musical ticks it made when you dialed.

He set it on his chest. The entire day seemed like a bad dream. He felt exhausted. He began to doze off.

Then - just like that - the phone rang.

He let it ring out and for no good reason shoved the phone under his two pillows. He laid back down and pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket. It was the receipt from the florist where he had ordered the flowers about twelve hours ago. He crumpled it up and tossed it across the room. It bounced off the side of an ice skate the hung over his closet door. Ice…. A picture formed in his mind - something like one of those dome shaped Christmas decorations that you turn upside down and shake to make the plastic snow fall. When was it, he wondered. Two - no, maybe three weeks ago. A freak cold snap. We -

Went ice skating. I had to dig out my old hockey skates from the basement storage box. I sanded the blades until they gleamed like sabers. Denise wanted to go to the new rink near the mall but instead we headed for the pond behind the fire station. We arrived just before dusk. There were about two dozen skaters there, gliding in pairs, doing figure-eights. Denise sat on a park bench and I knelt to help her with her skates. I pulled off her boots and tucked her thick yellow socks up under the cuff of her jeans. I slide the skates on. When I looked up I could see her face sparkling like a blue diamond under the park lamp. I struggled with the rawhide laces, trying to guide them through the tiny eyelets Finally, I figured, the hell with it, and took off my gloves. I fished the laces though and pulled them tight, then tied them around the top of each skate. I could feel a shiver slid along the worn leather, vibrating the blades like tuning forks. She placed her hand on my head and stood. The oval patches of bare denim at her knees bounced in front of me as she tried to steady herself. I just knelt there on the icy grass, wanting more then anything else to wrap my arms around her. Just hold her forever -

Riiiinnnng ....

Matt flinched.

Riiiinnnng ....

He pictured Denise at home. The roses - there on the dinning room table, there when she got home. Her mother looking on. Her father peeking over the evening paper - sharing the moment. She raises the flower, inhales deeply - fingers touching a petal - lips moving. Sees her sitting down at the small desk in the hallway ... reaching for the phone.

Riiiinnnng ....

He set the phone back on his chest. Lifted the receiver. "Hello."

A voice, hesitant: "Hi Matt?" He swallowed. Let a few seconds go by. "Matt? … Deuce? ..." He said nothing. Then heard: "I need to - ."

He thumbed the little bullet-shaped button on the phone's cradle, severing the connection. He walked to the window, still holding the phone, his eyes drawn to the wedge of moon balanced on the ridge of the garage roof. It cast a pewter tint over the crust of fresh snow. He thought of the nails again and their silver sores where the metal frame had rubbed them raw. Still standing he began dialing. He would do it now, while it still hurt more then he knew it should. Then, when it was done, he would go looking for the hammer.