She picked up her robe, slipping into it, then looked closer into the mirror. Her eyes were swollen and puffy. She poked at the little bags beneath them irritably with a long slender finger…

Beautiful, laughing hazel eyes, he used to tell me…

Thank God, she didn't have to walk into some classroom looking this way. She tossed down her brush and went to the bedroom window. A typically hot and smoggy Los Angeles summer's morn greeted her. It was 6:30; she hoped she might get some writing accomplished, if only a page or so, before the temperature reached the unbearable point in the little apartment, but she was in such a hellish, downcast mood. The stupid manager hadn't repaired her air-conditioning unit as yet, and she doubted that it would be done today. June 6th, her Jeffrey's birthday… God, how she missed him… and loved him… Happy birthday, darling… wherever you are…

She sighed resignedly, and dabbed at a swelling tear. It was going to be a miserable day.

In passing through the small living-room on her way to the kitchenette, her typewriter and the cluttered array of papers around it caught her eye. It glared back at her… an ogre, seemingly challenging her determination.

"Go to hell," she snapped aloud at the mechanical monster, setting about to make herself a cup of instant coffee. "I've beaten you before and I'll do it again."

She spooned the dehydrated powder into a cup and drew hot water from the tap. Why hadn't Karl Fletcher contacted her? She had given him the manuscript over a week ago, and he was to call and give her his evaluation the moment he finished reading it and he'd seemed more than just a little anxious to be of service, too. She found herself smiling. Of course, his enthusiasm hadn't fooled her. She had felt his little fish eyes raking her up and down… almost sensed his fat, sweaty hands touching her cringing flesh a half dozen times when they had ridden up on the elevator together. But that was before she had learned he was a literary agent and had gotten up the courage to approach him.