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the diamond defacing Miss Kathie. Me mutilating her.
    After a lifetime of such abuse the mirror bows, curved, so sectioned, so cut and etched so deep, that any new pressure could collapse the glass into a shattered, jagged pile of fragments. Another duty of my job is to never press too hard. My position included mopping up Paco’s piss from around the commode, then taking the dog to a veterinarian for gelding. Every day, I was compelled to tear a page from some history book—the saga of Hiawatha , written by Arthur Miller as a screenplay for Deborah Kerr , or the Robert Fulton story, as a vehicle for Danny Kaye —to pick up yet another steaming handful of feces.
    I drag the diamond in straight lines to mimic the tears running down Miss Kathie’s face.
    The diamond shrieks against the glass. The sound of an instant migraine headache.
    The mirror of Dorian Gray .
    Then footsteps echo from offscreen. The heartbeat of a man’s leather shoes approach from down the corridor, eachstep louder against the stone. Van Heflin or perhaps Laurence Olivier. Randolph Scott or maybe Sid Luft .
    In the silence between one footfall and the next, between heartbeats, I place the mirror facedown on the shelf. I return the diamond ring to my Miss Kathie.
    A man’s silhouette fills the doorway to the crypt, tall and slender, his shoulders straight, outlined against the light of the corridor.
    Miss Kathie turns, one hand already reaching for the tarnished tube of lipstick. She peers at the man, saying, “Could that be you, Groucho?”
    A bouquet of flowers emerges out of the gloom, the man’s hands offering them. Pink Nancy Reagan roses and yellow lilies, a smell bright as sunlight. The man’s voice says, “I’m so sorry about your loss.…” The smooth knuckles and clear skin of a young man’s hands, the fingernails shining and polished.
    What Hedda Hopper calls a “funeral flirtation.” Louella Parsons a “graveside groom.” Walter Winchell a “casket crasher.”
    Webster Carlton Westward III steps forward. The young man from the dinner party. The name and phone number on the burned place card.
    Those eyes bright brown as summer root beer.
    I shake my head, Don’t. Don’t repeat this torture. Don’t trust another one.
    But already my Miss Kathie wipes a fresh coat of red around her mouth. Then tosses the old lipstick to rattle among the tarnished urns. Among the empty wine bottles that people call “dead soldiers.” My Miss Kathie lowers the black mesh of her veil and reaches one gloved hand toward something coated with dust, something abandoned and long forgottenamong her dead loves. She lifts this ancient item, her red lips whispering,
“Guten essen.”
Adding, “That’s French for ‘never say never.’ ” Her violet eyes milky and vague with the drugs and brandy, Miss Kathie turns to accept the flowers, in the same gesture slipping the dusty item—her diaphragm—deep into the sagging slit of her old mink coat pocket.

ACT I, SCENE FIVE
    Clare Boothe Luce once said the following about Katherine Kenton —“When she’s in love, nothing can make her sad; however when she’s not in love, nothing can make her happy.”
    We’re playing this next scene in the bathroom adjacent to Miss Kathie’s boudoir. As it opens, we discover my Miss Kathie seated at her dressing table, facing three mirrors angled to show her right profile, her left profile, and her full face. The bouquet of pink Nancy Reagan roses and yellow lilies delivered by Webster Carlton Westward III occupy a vase, those few flowers reflected and reflected until they could be a florist shop. An entire garden. This single bouquet, multiplied. Made infinite. Not left at the crypt to rot.
    Dangling from the bouquet, a parchment card reads:
Our love is only wasted when we fail to share it with another. Please allow the world to share its limitless love with you
. Some gibberish plagiarized from John Milton or Mohandas Gandhi .
    Reflected in the mirrors, my Miss