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names on the rare occasions when he took an air shift. He spoke longingly at staff meetings of talk shows and more news programming.
    I found a garment bag on my desk; Kimberly the designer-clothes fairy had visited, leaving the skirt, the shoes and a folder with just about every detail except the inseams of our victims for the night. My date was Willis Scott III, one of our quaint local royalty, in his mid-thirties, president of a real estate company. I yawned as I scanned where he’d gone to school, his hobbies and nonprofit involvement.
    On the top of the sheet, in her round, loopy, rich-girl writing, Kimberly had given me the following instructions:
     
     
    Wax. Go to Azure Sky Salon and mention my name.
    No garlic.
    Don’t say fuck too often.
    Don’t criticize the orchestra.
    Don’t cut your own hair like last time.
     
     
    Just to annoy me she had put a smiley face over the i in her signature.
    Wax? Was she kidding? I hoped she only meant my legs and armpits, something I tended to neglect at this time of year.
    I took a quick look through the rest of my mail, most of it ending up in the recycle bin.
    There was one envelope that must have been hand-delivered, my name neatly typed on the outside. It must be—had to be—from Mr. D. I wanted so badly to open it, but we’d hurt each other and I was afraid of what I might read. Forgiveness might be even worse than any accusation.
    Inside was a single sheet of paper.
    I miss you already.
    Beneath it was a phone number and an email address.
    I turned the paper over although I knew there was nothing on the other side. Had this really been for me? Yes, that was my name on the outside, in the same standard computer font as the letter. It had to be from Mr. D.—who else could it be from?
    I could phone him. I could…
    I dangled the paper between my fingertips.
    There was no such thing as privacy anymore. I might have an unlisted home phone number, but my information—everyone’s—was all over the place on any number of databases, easily found. I crumpled the paper and threw it into the recycling bin. Then I picked it back out, smoothed it with my palms and wished he’d written it, not typed it. There was one way I could determine it was from Mr. D.—quite simple. I could make a call to that number.
    No, not now. I folded the paper and pushed it into a desk drawer, out of sight.
    After all, I couldn’t be sure it was him. A good proportion of the male population assumed that a woman was on the radio purely to get a man, meaning them. They sent in photos, some with their cats or dogs, and some, the anonymous ones, proudly displaying an erection but not their face. They sent their resumes, or long rambling letters explaining how we’d been soul mates in Arthurian Britain. We attracted the sad lonely misfits, and that was the end of it.
     
     
    “You look good. Did you get into Azure Sky okay?” Kimberly bent forward and examined her lipstick in the women’s room mirror.
    “Uh-huh.” One of the razors Hugh had left behind had done perfectly well.
    “Now be nice to him.”
    “You sound like you’re running the best little whorehouse in Texas.” I tucked my small silver purse under one elbow, rearranged my shawl and willed my nipples to behave. I wasn’t wearing a bra—my top was a gray silk halter-neck, found at a yard sale. Above my knees, the taffeta rustled. To complete my happy-radio-hooker outfit I wore thigh-highs, black with a seam, and a pair of large dangly fake diamond earrings.
    Kimberly gripped my elbow and escorted me out of the ladies’ room.
    “You have the right to remain silent. You have—”
    “Smart-ass.” She tugged me across the foyer, filled at intermission with well-heeled, mostly middle-aged patrons, mixed in with a few Birkenstocked old hippies, and some younger people in jeans and hiking boots and down vests. The symphony was nothing if not diverse.
    We approached a group of people with champagne glasses; our station manager,