of an offer, the second one in two months. He and
Mo could be lovers; he would ride shotgun, do things her way, and she
would do her best for him in time left over from her busy life. The
lilac sheets beckoned, but as suddenly as it had come, the offer, if it
had been one, was gone, swept off the table with the crumbs she brushed
with one hand into the other.

She stood and said, "The ladies better watch it. O.K., I still have
work to do today. I've got some orders I'm trying to get out by the
weekend." Again he was surprised, but he went on as though nothing had
happened. She drove him home, his tool case on his lap.

"I'll call you when I get back from the wedding," he said with his hand
on her car door.

"Have fun," she said and pulled away with a thoughtful frown. Joe
walked up the stairs to his apartment. What did she want? What did he
want? He didn't know, he had to admit. Probably that was why the offer
vanished. He'd paid attention to the plumbing and flunked passion.

Joe slung the aluminum case across the room onto the mattress. The
tools, in their foam cushion, didn't even rattle. "I kept my Goddamned
Thing in my Goddamned Pants, Batman!" Batman maintained a dignified
silence.

The next day Joe went to a bookstore and wrote down the addresses of
several graduate schools that offered non-resident programs. At home,
he hunted around on the Internet and found a writers group that
discussed the pros and cons of different programs. Montpelier, also in
Vermont, was well regarded.

He polished up his non-story, wrote a long letter explaining why an
ex-computer programmer wanted to write fiction, signed a check, threw
in some poems for good measure, and officially applied to Montpelier.

He walked to the Moana and watched the sunset. It had been a year since
he arrived in Hawaii. Had he really left Maine? Or was this just an
extended visit that was coming to an end? Joe liked Maine. Portland was
a comfortable little city . . . the Standard Bakery, fresh ale at
Gritty's, lattes at a dozen different coffee shops. He remembered the
small Hispanic/Indian man who pushed a shopping cart down the street in
all seasons, accepting Joe's returnable bottles with a grateful smile,
always saluting as though Joe were a superior.

Should he go back to Maine? Or to Woodstock? He had many old friends in
Woodstock. Daisy. Morgan had passed along her best wishes. Joe looked
down the beach at the lights circling the base of Di