Tony came charging up my front steps unannounced yesterday. His lemon hair was flying back like a cape, and his grin was wider than the Grand Canyon. "I found you a job."
I let go of the door which I had been holding open for him, and it slammed in his face, stopping him in his tracks.
"Where?" I said. I dared not get too excited, but I could feel my eyes widening.
He cocked his head, glaring at me through the screen door. "The Pool. We're looking for a receptionist. I told Mr. Rutger to look no farther; I have the perfect candidate."
"A desperate candidate."
"A perfect one."
I opened the door and yanked him inside. We unearthed some Chardonnay and continued with the project until the bottle was empty. Tony picked it up, bringing the glass to his eye to diagnose its opalescent color. "Results say that it is empty."
"It's empty, all right," I said. "My blurred vision can atest to that."
Tony smiled, and we sat there for a stiff moment. "You know I owe you," I said, "for hooking me up. I really appreciate it." He rolled his eyes and batted the air with his hand. I laughed. "Cheers to working together."
"Cheers," he said, smiling. And as we drained our glasses, I felt a rush of strings in my stomach coalescing into a central knot, resulting posibility from the idea of being stationed at a desk, greeting athletes, for forty hours each week, or, more probably, from the more opaque uncertainties that clouded my sudden fit of loneliness.
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