In his attic apartment with my face in the pillow he whispered from on top of me, I have to call my boss and call out sick.

I propped up on my elbows, but from behind he slipped his arms under mine and flattened me. Pressed against my back he said against my ear, I want to stay here with you.

Let's call your boss I said.

OK.

Let's call him right now.

Now?

Yes, I said.

He dragged the phone by its cord and dialed.

Give the phone to me, I said.

As the phone rang at the flower shop, I tried to calm my breathing and said, I am sorry, he can't come in today. He is in bed. I don't think he feels well. This is his girlfriend, yes, I said.

A few minutes later he let me up. He lit another cigarette and tossed its ashes in his shoe.

Yesterday we sat at the bar's front window overlooking Southampton in the summer. His lighter snicked and Marlboro smoke curled around his fingers. He blew smoke toward the glass and a woman stopped on the sidewalk to smile at him.

One day I would be a star at something, I thought. Across the street sat my battered old pick-up. I laughed every time I looked at it.