"Yeah, I can draw. But there's no money in it."

"Why can't you do both?"

"I try sometimes, but it's hard to get into it. If I make a good
drawing or painting, then what--I've got to frame it and beg some
gallery owner to sell it for fifty percent of not much? Frig that. It's
not like I'm a frustrated genius."

"Just frustrated," Oliver said.

"Look who's talking. Maybe you ought to forget programming and set up a
cabinet shop."

"Maybe," Oliver said.

"Speaking of frustrated," Mark said, "how are the ladies?"

"Not bad," Oliver said. "I'm in love."

"Oh, no!"

"It's complicated," Oliver said. "Remember Francesca?"

"Big trouble."

"Yeah, I guess. She's still with her husband, but maybe not for long.
He's a jerk."

"A bill-paying jerk."

"He's not right for her."

"And you are?" Mark set his pint on the bar.

"I am--or could be--if she wanted."

"So what are you going to do, put your life on hold?"

"I'm going to work, save some money."

"No indoor sports?"

"Oh, that," Oliver said. "I don't know."

Mark shook his head. "Well, love is one thing, but I'd keep in practice
if I were you."

"Maybe I'll buy a new sweater."

"Now you're talking. What was his name again? George . . ."

"Nakashima."

"The man!" Mark drank. "So how did you hear about him?"

"My father sent me the book I was telling you about."

"You never told me about your father." Oliver's explanation took them
through another pint.

"Something else," Mark said. "You're lucky. My father was a drunk--took
off when I was pretty young. He was hard on my mom."

"Do you ever see him?"

"No. She heard that he died a few years ago."

"Too bad," Oliver said.

"I don't know what his problem was," Mark said. "My mom said that he
had a bad time in the Korean War. But . . ."

"How's your mom doing?"

"Fine. She's got a boyfriend with a bike. They tool around Albuquerque,
have a good time."

"Love it! Look, I'm out of here."

"See you," Mark said.

Oliver walked home thinking that Mark seemed more vulnerable than
usual. Everybody's got a story. Everybody's got some kind of problem.
It started raining. He was wet through when he got home.

"Soaked, Verdi," he said. He changed into dry clothes and considered
dinner. Instant red beans and rice? The doorbell rang. He went down the
stairs and opened the door to the street. Jennifer Lindenthwaite was
standing there, dripping.

"Hi, Oliver."

"Jennifer!"

"Aren't you