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mumbles
something about the person on the phone.
    “Who?”
    “I don’t know who
it is. Just come get the fucking thing.” She beckons me over, using the
cordless house phone as a lure, and doesn’t step out onto the deck.
    What happened to
us?
    Rhetorical
question.
    She barely
acknowledges me when I take it, and then I listen to her bare feet pad across
the kitchen floor, around the corner, and her angry stomps fade away the
further she gets up the stairs. No matter what’s going on between us, that bare
bottom remains a symbol of perfection, and I could chew it like bubble gum.
    Is that weird?
Probably.
    Chances are high
she doesn’t love me anymore, but I’m still attracted to her. Blood through the
veins and all.
    “Hello. Mike
speaking.” I have no clue who this could be at six-thirty in the morning.
    “Mr. Long?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Mike Long from Graveyard:
Classified ?”
    “Yes. Who is
this?”
    “You don’t know
me, but…”
    The voice is
female. Little rougher, could have some age on it, like she’s seen things. I’m
thinking she could be in her mid-thirties.
    Mystery lady says,
“God, I’m really sorry to bother you so early, but I haven’t slept in days, and
I was—this is going to sound like I’m some crazy stalker, but you have your name
listed in the phone book, and I was hoping, maybe… hoping you might be able to
help.”
    I told Toni to
take our name out of the public phone book years ago. Years . She never
would. For a while, she was caught up in her own peripheral fame, and having
our name in the phone book meant that she could take calls and entertain
reporters, sometimes even segueing that whole thing into articles about herself
and the interior decorating business she used to own. She even got a few
modeling gigs out of it. By the time the phone stopped ringing entirely, I had
forgotten that we were publicly listed, and since Toni controls all the
household bills and whatnot, I’m guessing she left it out there with wistful
hopes on her mind.
    When you’re in the
twilight of fading fame, there’s nothing worse than a silent phone.
    The woman
apologizes again and sounds like she’s going to hang up.
    “It’s okay,” I
tell her. “I was already up. You know, sunrise on the deck. Bad coffee.” I
almost whisper those last two words. Toni is back in bed, in the master bedroom
directly above me where the humongous, large-paned windows overlook the
Atlantic, but I’m worried she’ll hear me criticizing her shopping choices.
Yeah. It’s that bad. I’d rather avoid the argument. “Can I help you with
something, Miss…?” I leave the question dangling at the end of that sentence,
prompting her to finally reveal a name.
    “I’m Dakota. Bailey .”
    She reveals it in
such a way that indicates I should know who she is, simply by her name, but I
should keep it a secret that Dakota Bailey is on the other end of the
line. Are you kidding me?
    “Oh, shit. No way! The Dakota Bailey? Seriously? Dakota Bailey. On my phone.”
    For God’s sake,
Mike, reel it in. It’s not like it’s the president.
    “Yeah,” she says. “That
would be me.”
    Dakota Bailey… the Dakota Bailey, won the reality cooking competition Yes, Chef! three
seasons in a row before she retired and went out on top. She’s a miracle worker
with a blank slate and a silver countertop covered with random ingredients.
Give her three onions, a bowl of wild rice, some shrimp, sun-dried tomatoes,
and a bucket of strawberry yogurt, and she’ll whip up a dish that will blow the
ever-lovin’ socks off any celebrity judge sitting on the panel.
    Chicken cutlets,
peanut butter, and a basket full of chocolate-covered walnuts, along with white
cheddar and raisins… strap on your seatbelts for the rocket-ride of
deliciousness.
    It was all mouth-watering from my side of the television screen. I never got to sit on the
celebrity judge panel, though I tried my damndest to get Carla to pull some
strings back when Graveyard