She was wearing some kind of black pantsuit in an old-fashioned cut that I failed to recognize almost as completely as it failed to hide her slender curves. Her body was tiny and perfect in every detail, just the right size to hoist her giggling over your shoulder and carry her away to some joyful, if socially frowned upon, rendezvous behind the nearest available concealment. In other words, just my type . . . which made the point I had to remind myself that she was incorporeal, and thus untouchable, the actual point I felt worst that night.

She seemed to sense this, and quickly asked me a question to try and, if not distract me exactly, get me to focus back on the matter at hand. “So are you drinking tonight because of your latest round of girl troubles?” she inquired.

“I wish!” I snorted with a bitter laugh.

She clucked her tongue against her teeth. “Didn't get another part then?”

The very question caused me to double-take. “I really have talked to you a lot, haven't I?”

“Every time you're drunk and walk this way,” she answered with a nod.

“That often, huh?” I asked rhetorically in a failed attempt to be flippant instead of focusing on my burgeoning alcoholism. “No . . . don't answer that,” I interrupted her before she could answer, “and let me answer you instead. No, I'm drinking tonight because I got called for a part.”

She tilted her head cutely. “How is that a bad thing?” she asked.

“Because,” I said dejectedly, “I came to this city to get cast in plays like Hamlet, Macbeth, or King Lear. I don't mind having a day job while I do it, I don't mind paying my dues, and I even like getting parts in Indie films while I do it. The people are great and it's actual acting work.”

“But . . .” she prompted.

“But today,” I said with a sigh, “a friendly director called me up and said they were trying to cast the part of a 'threatening scumbag' and 'naturally' thought of me.”

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