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Show Woodworth/99 "You don't need to regista so long as ya boyfriend does," the clerk tells her. "My mother always brought me up to sign for myself," she says, and pens "Florence Nightengale" under Ralph's name. The doors are soundproofed, slam shut like something from a grade B horror film. Their room has one window, shrouded by heavy curtains. When she pulls them aside, she sees the business of the full-day swing of Beacon Street, people like signposts waiting for the Green Line. She turns back to him. He has lain on one of the lumpy beds, arms crossed behind his head. This is her show, he is watching. The spread, a dull rust, wavers out from under him. "Did you look for the Bible?" she asks, and opens the middle drawer of the night table. Plastic, simulating wood. The drawer is empty. "We used to stay at a hotel. When I visited my grandparents. There were always postcards and stationary in the drawers." He doesn't answer, so she goes on, talking, searching for her part. It feels the ^ame, almost, as being on stage. "I'd hate to spend the night in a place like this." Taps the mirror frame. Plastic, too. Avoids her eyes, her image in the mirror. This is different, She can fake the costume, the make-up. But she needs lines. "Marty," her mother's voice calls her. "Will you figure out which of these records belongs to Jake?" "Jake was really my best friend, you know." She stands with her back to him, head down, in front of the mirror. "I thought we could tell each other everything. We did tell each other everything." She stops. The start is too false. Outside, the honking, the sound of traffic, heels on sidewalks. Saturday shoppers-; tlcM'fcqfritm lists. Correct change. The last errand. |