cees oeveren. capitol. finished.

           My PR agent, Analise, has a cold and makes a joke about working from home, but then, "Duuuh," she smiles at me playfully, "Cees, this is my home. And you are all my family." She winks at the ensemble of legal assistants sitting behind me, their notebooks in their laps while they angrily look on because I showed up during their scheduled meeting and she insisted "I come in and sit down, it'll only take a minute."

There's a long pause where I'm forced to admit that I haven't gotten around to reading any scripts. I look down — at what — my hands?

"Baby, baby, baby," Analise soothes, blowing her nose into a silk handkerchief and tossing it into an overflowing pile of other handkerchiefs on the floor, "... are you going to the Gala this evening?"

"Which one?" I'm asking.

She shrugs, "Both?"

Suddenly her transmitter beeps, a husky voice floating over the receiver and she pulls it to her mouth hurriedly, answering it. While staring directly at me she says, "Yes? . . . Yes, it's fine. . . . Ri-ight. . . . No, I'm not sick. . . . He's putting the 'sexy' back in Group Chief Human Resources Officer. . . . Baby. . . . Yes. . . . Fabulosity — Oh my god. . . . Sounds delicious. . . . Is that so? . . . Baby, you're so bad. . . . Ta-ta." She clicks off and notices my expression. "Let's just say my mom hasn't left her house in, oh, seventeen years," she explains.
"Oh," I say, still not getting it. "Yeah. Sure."

Analise tries to smile.

"You know I always love chatting with you, Cees, I mean how else am I going to keep up with..." she scrutinizes me, "... you're... whole... thing..." she makes a grande circular motion with her hand in front of my face, "but I have an extremely vital hair appointment on the other side of town," she's squeezing my cheek. "Consider doing that talk show . . . and if you're going to read any of the scripts I sent over, at least peruse the stack titled, Ricky, the Vulture!" She pauses. "It was written by Bernard Tromsky earlier this year and I've heard it has been plugging quite the dream cast." She winks at me. "I mean, it's the second instalment in the series — Bernie always writes in 3's — and my sources have already sent over the third, and last, script-slash-rough-draft, which will be shot immediately after this one." She taps her desk thoughtfully. "I think it was called . . . Get Away from that Vulture, Ricky! . . . no, Get The Hell Away from That Vulture, Ricky!" She smiles again, distracted, staring at the new unsullied handkerchief she's just pulled from her hand bag, "The first one had an absolutely brilliant cast. A very resentful Melanie Von Pattens, an equally resentful Aaron Barruthens, and Daniella Bates signed on after some coaxing from yours truly to play the sergeant's extremely resentful mother — the resentful wench!" She's got a wicked smile going as she blows her nose.

A long pause occurs while I try to process this information. Unsure, I break it hesitantly. "So . . . I'd be playing . . . the vulture?" I steal a glance over my shoulder and notice a man scrawling furiously into a legal pad. When I look back, Analise is glaring at me noxiously.

"You'll be auditioning for Ricky V; you come from a long line of Rickys who have all fought the vulture but failed. Died. Kaputt. Your 'father,' for instance, was chopped up into pieces and eaten in the vulture's lair. It's all very raw." She sighs, sadly. "It's not the largest franchise, but the fans 'that be' are still hoping that the last death wasn't . . . fatal." She whispers the last part with wide eyes.

I'm nodding, glancing suspiciously at the legal assistants again. "Uh-huh, I'll check it out."

"Kiss-kiss, bye-bye," she says when she throws me out.

"See you tonight," I say, waving wanly.

"Bring a girl," she warns.

           "Everything's going to work out," he says, then, barely audibly, adds, " . . . you'll see."

I nod.

He realizes something, his face shifting, and says, "How's your father doing?"

"He's fine," I say flatly. "He's terrific. He just came back from a conference. Might land a job shooting the Victory Tour."

He moves to look out the window, and then comes back and sits on the couch and I put my hands on his shoulders and he says stop it and, after I let go, he puts his fingers over mine and I reach out and touch his face with the palm of my hand and his shyness returns and he looks down. "And how's . . . your shoot?"

"Almost over," I say.

He stands up, then flops down on the couch again. "And how's . . ." He stops mid-sentence, noticing the haircut I had to get because my agent kept mistaking me for her mother. "Nice hair."

"Thanks," I say. I press his head against the couch and close my eyes and kiss him. When I try to advance my hand, he stops it gently. Something on the ceiling, in the corner, dominates his attention and he glances up at it, staring, then — deciding something — breaks his gaze, but apparently he can't help it: something in the room seems to worry him. I try to kiss him again.

"I have a favour to ask you," he says.