Gay.com Column: "Friday Night Lights": Turning up the man-on-man heat

If frat houses are homoerotic, imagine how much more so football clubs are. Frat brothers only live together; football players practically sweat on each other. Why else would the locker room be the symbol du jour of raging man-on-man action?

So when you take a football club and make it one of 24/7 horny teenagers, you'd expect a little between-brothers experimenting, right? Sadly, for a season and a third, "Friday Night Lights" has steadfastly denied us that plotline.

That doesn't mean, though, that the past three episodes haven't given me cause for hope.

First there was that melt-my-screen hot scene from three weeks ago, between Jason Street, Lyla Garrity, and the ever-smoldering Tim Riggins. Lyla kisses wheelchair-bound Jason, then floats over into Riggins's arms, then kisses Riggins while Jason watches them, smiling. It was such a "Y Tu Mama Tambien" moment that I actually physically shivered, sure that the next scene would be the three of them slow-dancing their way onto a bed. It wasn't, but I like to think that's what happened anyway.

And there was the episode two weeks ago, when star player Smash Williams invited Riggins over for dinner. It was purely platonic, Smash's pretext for some football talk with Riggins, but the exchange put a smile on my face nonetheless. When Riggins replied: "Are you asking me on a date, Williams?", my instinctive reaction was "SAY YES, DUMBASS". If you don't understand this reaction, I direct you to any Riggins-centric scene; actor Taylor Kitsch could have sexual chemistry with a rock.

But if the Jason-Lyla-Riggins threesome was eyebrow-raising only by implication, and if the Smash-Riggins encounter was purely my wishful thinking, last Friday's locker room scene was explicit on its own terms.

As Lyla and bad-ass bad-girl Tyra Collette busted into the locker room, you could clearly see the half-naked guys horsing around. It lasted only fleeting moments, of course, before the guys behaved themselves in the presence of women, but that's what the 'rewind' button was invented for. And, in any case, that was peanuts compared to the later mass dance.

Guided by Lyla and Tyra's ingenious choreography, the Dillon Panthers put on a performance for the annual 'Pantherama'. Said performance included the stripping of clothes, the stripping of pants, and a whoooollle lotta boxers-only male bodies inches from each other. To give you an idea of how inneundo-laden all of it was, this was my straight friend's comment: "How many rehearsals did they have, again?"

Indeed. So there you have it: three episodes, three scenes of varying homoeroticism. It may not ultimately lead to anything, but we can always have hope, yes?

And in the meantime, there's always that 'rewind' button.

Catch the boys - all right, and girls - of "Friday Night Lights" on Fridays, on NBC at 9 pm / 8 pm central.

Gay.com Column: "Brothers and Sisters": Rob Lowe's Shiny New Flaw

With all the attention that's been showered on Matthew Rhys, you'd think that there were no other guys on hit show "Brothers and Sisters". But no more. Enter Exhibit A: Rob Lowe's Senator McCallister.

"Now wait a minute," I bet you're gonna say. "Hasn't the guy been on the show for like, forever?" And you would be right. Rob Lowe - and Robert McCallister - have been on the show for like, forever (and ever). But it wasn't until the past two episodes that the character became interesting.

As much as it pains me to complain about anything on "Brothers and Sisters", Robert McCallister was possibly the most boring character on television. He was so perfect that he wasn't remotely human: dream boyfriend, dream fiance, and dream Republican, he charmed the socks off everyone on the show and looked immaculately hot doing it. And every time it seemed like there was some scarlet letter in his past, it turned out instead to be a bleeding badge of honor:

As a teenager, he might have knocked up a girlfriend and dumped her afterwards? You got it aaaalll wrong. She cheated on him, and he not only forgave her but helped her have the baby (and helped her give it up for adoption). Isn't he a saint?

People think that he cheated on his wife? Ah, but they're wrong, you see - (again,) she cheated on him. He just didn't want the divorce to get any uglier in public.

He voted against stem-cell research? Only because he thought it was a decision best left to the states. Had nothing to do with any ethical beliefs either side of the fence.

He voted against same-sex marriage? But he has a gay brother! (And, really, he reversed his vote later on, so it's a total wash.)

His ex-wife accuses him of being emotionally withholding, and of always going it alone? Where did that plot thread lead to, again? Completely disappeared in the Kitty-Robert puppy wuv? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Maybe he didn't actually save all those people during the Gulf War? Are you kidding? He's just reluctant to talk about it because he's modest and doesn't believe in cheap grandstanding.

And so forth. Is it any wonder that the character bored me to tears? Not even considering the impossibly naive McCallister's Big No-No's in Politics, the character wasn't a human being: it was as if, in the writers' desperation to make the Republican Character Actually One of the Good Guys, they hit a massive blind spot that stretched all of twenty episodes.

Thank goodness they've finally stopped giving McCallister an Unlimited Free Pass.

In the past two episodes, Robert McCallister has been so much more relatable. Now engaged to eponymous 'sister' Kitty Walker, the couple suffered the tragedy of a first trimester miscarriage. Only, as it turned out, McCallister was already having misgivings about another child. Father of two children already, he thought he was done adding little ones to his life. And now, with Kitty oblivious to this and wanting children with McCallister, the stage is finally set for some depth to the McCallister character. How will this affect the two's relationship? Whether McCallister gives in or resists, there's bound to be bad and un-ignorable repercussions, which means that he'll finally get down and dirty on this show.

To which I can only say: Amen. And maybe: it took you long enough, show, but I forgive you.

Of course, this development has to happen on the cusp of an indeterminate hiatus, so I hope you'll forgive me for leaving now to go curse a blue streak.

"Brothers and Sisters" airs Sundays on ABC, at 10 pm / 9 pm central.

Gay.com Column: Fischer on the strike: "End the strike for Riggins!"

I heart Pam Beesly. Always have. The only sane woman working in "The Office", Beesly makes normalcy look so attractive I want to make sexy time with her.

Given that, it's a relief that real-life Beesly is a sweetheart too. Actress Jenna Fischer has always struck me as one of the proverbial good guys, but you can honestly never tell with those L.A. types (Ellen Pompeo on "Punked", anyone?). With Fischer, however, I'm glad to say that there's definitive proof of her basic decency.

It's not just the advice and encouragement that she pours out to aspiring actors. It's also that, in this time of strikes, she makes a damned good spokeswoman.

Even though she's only a fledgling writer, she certainly understands what's at stake. In posts on her blog here and here, she makes an intelligent, articulate, and impassioned argument for why the strike is necessary. When you consider that the strike isn't doing her any favors, and that it's in fact cutting to nada her steady "Office" income, it's even more obvious that this is a woman with a good head on her shoulders. A cynic might think that she's just looking out for her future earnings, but I think her track record more than speaks for itself.

Besides, she's a fan of "Friday Night Lights", so she must be on the side of the angels. And her call-to-arms that we must "End the Strike for Riggins!"? Easily the best motivator that I've heard.

Ah. Screw that. Easily the best motivator, ever.

"The Office" has officially stopped production, so there will be no new episodes until the strike ends.

"Friday Night Lights", however, is still on NBC, on Fridays at 9 pm / 8 pm central.

Gay.com Column: Solved! The Mystery of Shirtless Peter on "Heroes"

The two biggest mysteries since the beginning of the season: how did Peter Petrelli, played by the sizzling Milo Ventimiglia, end up shirtless in a shipping container? And, more importantly, how can we get him to do that again?

It turns out that the answer to the first question involves a black man and memory wiping. And the answer to the second? A trip to Flashbackland, Heroestopia.

Unlike last season's flashback episode, yesterday's episode revealed the answers to many questions. It revealed the connection between Peter and the mysterious Adam (they were both taken prisoner by the Company, and escaped together), it revealed how Peter and Nathan survived Peter's explosion last season (Peter regenerated, and used Adam's Claire-like DNA to regenerate Nathan), and it revealed how Peter ended up (shirtless!) in Ireland (when the Company tried to recapture Peter, the Haitian helped him get away, and wiped his memories to give him a new life).

All in all, it was a fine episode. A better than fine episode. It was a great episode, a big neon sign that said "Heroes" was back, baby. And not a moment too soon. After too many sprawling, unfocused episodes, the season finally has a sense of purpose again, a grand scheme summarized by David Anders's delicious line as Adam: "Shall we save the world?"

Hell yes.

But more than that, the episode also gave fans two more reasons to continue watching: for the fifth time in just eight episodes, Shirtless! Peter was on display again. That officially puts the hit-rate at over fifty per cent, which can only mean one thing: the writers are deliberately using Shirtless! Peter as a shameless advertising tool.

Which, as you can tell, is totally okay by me. It makes following his scenes a little difficult, what with the constant drool-wiping, but that's really a small price to pay.

Besides Shirtless! Peter, however, yesterday's episode also threw Peter and Adam together, played by two fine guys with a hotness sum much greater than its individual parts. While it was previously unthinkable (for me) that the unholy pairing of Milo Ventimiglia and Adrian Pasdar could ever be surpassed in fineness, it turns out that it very much could: with some finagling on the part of the writers, I'm sure a Peter-Adam-Nathan get-together can be contrived. Seriously, the heat graph would be exponential; I don't even care if they meet as enemies, or as the trio that saves the world, as long as they do. And if the meeting involves a return to the strip/hose-down room of the HAZMAT facility? So much the better for all of us.

The best part of that scenario? The fact that it's very probable - the three's meeting, that is, if not the HAZMAT fantasy. I can't imagine that the season will go by without a Petrelli sibling reunion, and since Peter and Adam seem to be likely partners, a round-up of the three should be in the cards sometime.

Add to that anticipation the twin plotlines of the murdered Elder Heroes and the Shanti Virus, and it's never been a better time to be a "Heroes" fanboy.

"Heroes" airs on Mondays on NBC, at 9 pm / 8 pm central. As if you didn't know.

Gay.com Column: This Week This Happened: What do "30 Rock" and "Heroes" have in common?

It's been a bad week for television. From reports of shows running out of episodes earlier than expected, to irrelevant guest stars on network blockbusters, the theme this week is capital D Downsizing, both quantity- and quality-wise.

The only good D news this week? A possible trimming of cast fat on the hopelessly bloated "Heroes". A massacre of meaningless characters that would make everybody happy. A return to a happier time when every character had a serious part to play.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

First up, the December farewells of more than ten network shows. Although previously thought to have enough episodes to last until January, many shows will in fact be forced into permanent hiatus soon, some as early as the first week of December. And these are not all second-stringers either.

The last new episode of "Desperate Housewives" will air on December 2nd, with new "Heroes" episodes drying up the day after that. "Pushing Daisies", "Ugly Betty", and "Grey's Anatomy" also only have four new episodes each, although judicious scheduling may stretch them to January. "Brothers and Sisters" will also say goodbye soon. As for the hilarious "How I Met Your Mother" - that will be gone by the end of the month.

For some of the early retirees, the timing really couldn't be worse: "Housewives" has had a creatively resurgent season so far, while this week's "Heroes" showed that its sophomore slump was finally over. But because production has shut down, both series will now only have four hours: four hours to win back and create new viewers; four hours to make sure those viewers come back after the strike - however long that lasts. With no resolution to the dispute in sight, the 'come back' part of the deal might be a very tall order indeed.

But for some of the other shows, an extended break might be better for all involved. I'm thinking specifically of "Bionic Woman", whose ratings have fallen faster than a roller-coaster on the downslope. As of this week's episode, this Woman has gone from a roaring premiere to a whimpering cry for any attention. It has the most-watched premiere of all the new shows, and yet has managed to lose more than half of that audience. Something is obviously very wrong, and - if it doesn't get canceled outright - this extra time to fix and repair will hopefully get it going again.

But it's not the only show that could use an extended time-out. To that list I would add "30 Rock", "Ugly Betty", and "America's Next Top Model". Don't get me wrong; "30 Rock" is still consistently brilliant, "ANTM" consistently whack-on-crack, and "Ugly Betty" pretty consistently fabulous. But the guest stars on these shows, on the other hand... let's just say that some people need to be threatened with pay cuts.

Just this week alone, "Ugly Betty" hosted Victoria Beckham, "ANTM" Enrique Iglesias, and "30 Rock" guest-'starred' David Schwimmer. I'm sorry; when did we time-travel back to the '90s? And Victoria Beckham? Really? When there's her infinitely better other half David Beckham on tap? Isn't showrunner Silvio Horta a gay man? Who chooses Victoria over David? The man is a god. The woman is bumps on a stick.

For "ANTM" and "Ugly Betty" these choices might not be that egregious; they are after all established shows, and should have no problem staying on the radar even without more enticing guest stars. But I don't think "30 Rock" has that privilege. Its current season is already due more to acclaim than actual numbers; and with the writers' strike threatening to pull it off the air in January, now is the time to grab some strangers with eye-and-promo-catching cameos. Now is not the time to make them go, 'David Schwimmer, huh'.

For a prime example of how to capitalize on its remaining episodes, "30 Rock" should take a look at the strategy of "Heroes". The shows have superficially opposite problems, but essentially those problems are the same: supporting characters that, however good for the story, aren't helping the show get viewers. But while "30 Rock" continues to cast the same downsized cameos (see: Seinfeld, Jerry; Fisher, Carrie), "Heroes" is taking the opposite tack, by out-sizing its problems and correcting them.

Besides the very public mea culpa, the creators of "Heroes" have also shrewdly hinted at some of those supporting characters' demises. This TV Guide interview is perhaps the most explicit, with producer Jeph Loeb promising a "housecleaning" in the December 3rd episode, the last episode before the show goes off the air. Retooled as a quasi-finale to deal with the strike, anticipation of those unpopular characters' deaths will undoubtedly help send the ratings sky-high. And, with any luck, those tuning in will be back for Volume III.

"30 Rock", on the other hand... I love the show to bits, but I also loved "Veronica Mars" to bits. And on that show, brilliant writing, great acting, critical acclaim, and a rabid fan-base didn't prove enough in the end. "30 Rock" needs something splashier, and if an extended hiatus can help it secure more ratings-friendly guest stars, then the strike might be a bonus after all.

So what's the moral of this week's happenings? Downsizing can have its benefits, but it's mostly bad for all involved. Upsize the writers' deserved payments, upsize the episodes of our favorite shows, and, please, dear (any) god, upsize the viewerships of shows that deserve them. Down with downsizing, and up with upsizing!

Gay.com Column: "The Amazing Race": The Groundbreaking Lesbians

After eleven seasons, 268 racers, and countless ratings grabs, you'd think there would be little that could surprise a seasoned "The Amazing Race" watcher. But when the new teams for the twelfth season were announced, there was one configuration that I certainly hadn't expected.

With the kickass chyron of "Married Ministers", lesbians Kate and Pat quickly became for me the season's most interesting team (the 'Goth' team be damned). Not only was there just one lesbian in the past seasons of "TAR", but such a partnership had never before been seen on reality TV.

Add to that their religious background, and you had the ingredients for an incendiary reaction.

But one episode into the popular reality program, the team has seemingly drawn no flak or homophobic backlash. While there are anecdotal stories of ex-fans now boycotting the show, there have been equal anecdotal stories of converts because of the couple. More importantly, there has been no reaction at all from the mainstream or online press corps.

This might be in part due to the angle of their "TAR" journey thus far. In the premiere, the lesbian ministerial couple were portrayed sans 'Lesbian!!!' or 'Ministers!!!'. Aside from a few throwaway lines about their religion, the two were depicted as any other couple.

A large part of the press corps' silence may also be due to "TAR" history. While Kate and Pat may be the first lesbian couple, "TAR" has traditionally been good to the G in the LGBT community. From the first season's 'Guidos' Joe and Bill, to the fourth season's winners Chip and Reichen, to the tenth season's boyfriends Tom and Terry, to the many more unmentioned, "TAR" has gone out of its way to include gay contestants in its casts. So while a lesbian couple may be a little late, Kate and Pat's inclusion is not that surprising in hindsight, considering the G-leanings of "TAR" history.

But despite both of these highly plausible explanations, I can't help but hope that the non-buzz is caused by another reason: that it's not Big News because of a growing majority maturity. This, to me, would be the best reason of all.

However, having said that, I hope that this casting does create some waves - not on the part of audiences at home, but on the part of television writers and producers.

This is because the casting exposes a glaring and embarrassing imbalance: the paucity of lesbians compared to gays in mainstream television.

While gay men have had it fairly good in terms of mainstream TV roles - besides "TAR", a few other big names include "Desperate Housewives", "Brothers and Sisters", "Will and Grace", "As The World Turns", et cetera - I'm hard-pressed to think of many substantial lesbian roles. "The L Word" is canceled out by "Queer as Folk", and episode arcs on "Nip/Tuck" don't exactly scream exposure. Neither am I impressed by the fact that lesbian kisses are still sweeps or finale stunts (see: "The O.C.", "Dirt", et cetera).

So more than just an inspired choice on the part of "TAR" producers, Kate and Pat represent to me a big step forward for lesbians - and I certainly hope that others in power pick up on this example.

But, in the meantime, I'm glad that this couple is a team that I can root for without feeling guilty.

I didn't expect them, but I do like them, and even if they're not the definition of 'efficient', at least they seem to genuinely love the race and each other. Their interview quote that "TAR" is a "love letter to the planet" may also be the best summation of the show that I've heard.

So here's to unexpected and likable teams making it as far as they possibly can. And if they pave the way for other lesbians in television, so much the better. I look forward to the day when I won't be surprised by such casting.

"The Amazing Race" spans the globe on Sundays on CBS, at 8 pm / 7 pm central.

Gay.com Column: This Week This Happened: All You Need Is Faith

A lot can happen in seven days, so let This Week This Happened point you to the best and most exciting news. This week, the organizing theme is good ol' faith: who got it, who lost it, and who's in desperate need of a little.

Kicking off is my man Joss Whedon. Creator of cult favorites "Buffy" and "Angel", Whedon is set to return to television after a nearly three-year absence. It turns out that all he needed was a dose of Faith - and he got it in the lovely form of one Eliza Dushku.

Most famous for playing Faith the rogue Slayer in "Buffy" and "Angel", Dushku will team up with Whedon to present the new series "Dollhouse". Advertised as a cross between "Quantum Leap" and "Alias", Dushku will star as Echo, member of a cadre of 'human chalkboards'. Upon receiving their assignments, these blank agents are imprinted with special skills and memories, then wiped clean afterwards and returned to the 'dollhouse'. Through the course of the first season, Echo will gradually gain self-awareness, and struggle to discover her pre-dollhouse past.

Sounds like an excellent premise to me, and I'm already looking forward to its fall '08 premiere. Anything with Whedon or Dushku will already get my vote, so one with Whedon and Dushku? Consider me sold and sold again. (And I'm certainly not the only one, if this website is any indication.)

The only fly in the ointment might be the network involved. And that's - cue ominous music - the dreaded network Fox. Any Whedonites worth their salt will remember the great "Firefly" fiasco, wherein Fox destroyed the series with its inept scheduling. While Whedon has obviously forgiven if not forgotten, I'm taking with a grain of salt the PR reacharounds. Much is riding on this new series, and if it fails because of Fox, you can be sure I'll be one of those picketing the network.

Moving on from my personal god, if Joss Whedon finally got some good ol' Faith, network NBC lost theirs in a big way this week. Their faith in "Heroes", that is. The show that enjoyed super ratings last season has taken a mighty tumble, with numbers freefalling through the weeks since its sophomore premiere. And instead of publicly displaying a show of support, NBC has chosen instead to spread a message of doom.

Yes, that's right - "Heroes: Origins" has been unofficially canceled.

Envisioned as a way to stem viewership falloff in the hiatus, "Heroes: Origins" was supposed to introduce a new character each week, with viewers able to vote for their favorite at the end of the six-week run. The winning character would then be integrated into the flagship show. With big names like Kevin Smith and Eli Roth already on board, the spinoff was supposed to be NBC's big midseason splash.

Was supposed to, was supposed to. With the current (bad) situation with "Heroes", and with the looming writers strike, NBC bigwigs decided to pull the plug - for now, they say. Officially, "Heroes: Origins" is not actually canceled, only "indefinitely postponed".

I believe in networkese that means 'we'll have to see how the original show does first'. Which is a fair position for a business to take; I only wonder why this was not publicly said: with "Heroes" rapidly losing fans, this might have been enough to persuade those on the fence to give the struggling series more time. Done like this, the announcement only makes NBC seem like a heartless boss. And not only that, but a heartless boss with egg all over its face.

Having said that, let's move on to the final item for today: if NBC has lost some faith, it's definitely not the only one to do so. The Writers Guild of America has officially called for a strike to begin. Details of the strike are not yet forthcoming, and rumors put its actual start-date between this coming Monday and next January. But regardless of the strike details, it's clear that there is much bad blood between the writers and the entertainment industry at large.

Most of it stems from the previous contract, which gave writers a disproportionately small percentage of the spoils. That contract ended this past week, and so the WGA is angling for a new and more equitable replacement. Whether it will materialize, and how long the process might take, is beyond anybody's guess at the moment.

What is certain, however, is that when this strike occurs, it will cause much disruption to television. With the quick turnaround time on television programs, much of this season's scripted shows have not yet been fully written - and they are the lucky ones. With at least six to eight episodes already likely written, they will have enough material to last until January. Late-night talkies and similar programs, like "The Colbert Report" and "The David Letterman Show", however, will face difficulties immediately, since their content is generated on a daily basis.

What does this mean for TV watchers like you and me? It means one very horrifying thing: more reality television.

It's almost enough to make anyone lose their faith in any god. Networks big and small are already priming their reality and game shows, and in case you are expecting those to be of the caliber of "The Amazing Race", or even of the wickedly entertaining "America's Most Smartest Model" - I'm afraid I have bad news for you.

Upcoming titles include: "My Dad Is Better Than Your Dad", "Farmer Wants A Wife" (I am not kidding with this one), and "Jingles". While some of them will probably be somewhat watchable, hands up if you're with me in wanting our lovely writers to return.

I realize that there's probably little that prayer can do at this point to stop the strike, but if prayer can magically force those suits to come to a meeting point, then by golly I am going on my knees.

And on that note, with your hands up and my knees bent, this brings us to the end of the first installment of this roundup. And if you haven't already guessed who's the one in desperate need of a little faith - it's me.

Gay.com Column: Now this you should watch: "Cambridge Spies"

The British really do some things better. From the depictions of homosexual sex, to the comfort of the male leads with their naked bodies, "Cambridge Spies" achieves a level of gay frankness not even "Brothers and Sisters" can get away with.

Made in 2003, the BBC miniseries fictionalizes the infamous 'Cambridge Four', British spies who betrayed their country during World War II and beyond. If all that history sounds boring in print, you'll have to trust me that it's not so on screen.

That's because, rather than focus on the world-changing events, the miniseries instead concentrates on the four men's relationships. Although two are gay and the other two straight, and each has a distinctly different temperament, the miniseries-makers apply the same scrupulous attention to all. And if some storylines seem rushed and cramped, the actors go a long way towards excusing that.

Between Toby Stephens, Samuel West, Rupert Penry-Jones and Tom Hollander, there's a man to suit every stripe, and each actor brings his considerable talent to bear on his meaty role. Stephens's Kim Philby is a rough-and-ready Englishman, Penry-Jones's Donald Maclean is a pretty-but-straight scholar, and West's Anthony Blunt is the gentleman who holds the four together.

But the breakout star of this enterprise is undoubtedly Tom Hollander. Probably most famous stateside as the evil Lord Beckett in "Pirates of the Caribbean", here Hollander plays the role of the exuberantly gay Guy Burgess. Always ready with a witty quip, and never failing to command admiration, Hollander's Burgess is like the kid in school who did and got away with everything (and almost everyone).

But if Hollander's the one most likely to appeal to a wide swath of gay viewers, each of the other actors also deserves no less accolades. Together they elevate the miniseries from mere eye-candy to arresting, whether it's Blunt showing the strains of leadership in the group, or Penry-Jones struggling to decide whether to confess to his wife.

Also, in most other series the cheesecake sex scenes would be the shows' whole purpose, but here they are only the icing on an already substantial cake. In other words, you won't have to feel too guilty when you rewatch certain segments - over and over again.

So if you'd like to learn some history while watching gorgeous men, the four-part "Cambridge Spies" is likely to hit both spots at once. Add to that the British accents that say sexy in every syllable, and how can you actually refuse to watch this show?

"Cambridge Spies" is available on Netflix.

Gay.com Column: "Heroes": Where in the hell was Bell's Elle?

She came, she fried, she called someone daddy. And then she disappeared.

Did anybody else miss Kristen Bell on yesterday’s episode of “Heroes”?

Written as an intriguing mixture of perkiness and malevolence, her character Elle was the bright spot of last week's episode. And although it was her first appearance of thirteen contracted episodes, Bell proved to be worth the fortune the network must have coughed up.

So far, press releases have indicated that Elle has ties to our existing heroes. While her involvement in Peter Petrelli’s supposed death is likely to be revealed soon – the character having been shown already to be on a mission to locate him – other tidbits parceled out will probably take longer to pay off, such as her connection to Noah Bennett’s past.

But, for the moment, her superpower of lightning bolts and the mysterious identity of her father – both of these have been enough to stir up some serious speculation. Does the sassy blonde have any other powers up her devious sleeve? And if her father – who sent her to locate Peter Petrelli – is indeed part of the morally gray Company, is it someone we’ve met already or a puppet-master still in the shadows?

More importantly, who is Elle exactly? Bell has hinted in interviews that a twist about the character is in store, and many have poured forth suggestions about the nature of this statement. Since the character is being portrayed currently as on this side of evil, does this mean she’s actually a younger and sassier version of Bennett – who was similarly thought to be bad at this stage of last season’s “Heroes”? Or is reverse psychology the name of this character’s game? With the magnificently creepy Sylar likely to take a backseat – actor Zachary Quinto having landed the part of Spock in the upcoming “Star Trek” film – perhaps Elle is stepping up to take over the mantle of Villain?

So many questions, but luckily we have time. Although she was sadly missing from yesterday's episode, with twelve more appearances of Bell and Elle in the remaining months, fans of the actress and character will no doubt be satisfied. And that’s a good thing, since the show’s pacing and storylines to date have been uneven at best. But – notwithstanding last season’s anti-climactic finale – the show writers have proven themselves capable of tying up storylines, so we can all hope that this is still the case.

And that, of course, Elle is somehow the knot that everything culminates in finally.

Support Kristen Bell by watching “Heroes” every Monday on NBC, at 9 pm / 8 pm central.

Gay.com Column: Friday Night (High)Lights: The Score

It's been a long and agonizing wait, but the numbers are finally in. With the premiere of "Women's Murder Club" three Friday nights ago, the fall television schedule of that night has finally been stabilized. Barring any cancellations or drastic changes in quality, the Nielsen patterns of each program are unlikely to fluctuate wildly.

So how is the cult-beloved "Friday Night Lights" doing in the game of ratings? The Nielsen breakdown of the timeslot reveals a complicated scoreline.

On the basis of pure eyeballs alone, "Friday Night Lights" is being outshone, plain and simple. Despite a recent climb in total viewers - its premiere drew 6.5 million people, and subsequent episodes 5.42, 5.48, and this past Friday's episode 5.88 million people - the show still trails far behind its rivals in the timeslot.

Even though "Women's Murder Club" is bleeding followers every single week, those ditching the club seem to be going to "Moonlight" instead; in any case, both "Club" and "Moonlight" are averaging much higher audiences, at 9.5 and 8 million watchers respectively. Given these trends in total viewership numbers, "Friday Night Lights" will probably never get out of its laggard third place in this category.

That being said, another yardstick favored by network executives may keep our "Lights" in play, and that is the all-important 18-49 demographic. Much prized for its purchasing power and therefore by advertisers, this age group is fiercely contested by any and every network, and "Friday Night Lights" is attracting as much of this demographic as "Club", and only slightly less than "Moonlight".

What this means is that, while unlikely to be picked up for the full season based on overall popularity, NBC may justify such a decision by citing the show's appeal to advertisers.

And the chances of it doing so are looking good, at least for the moment. With the network's "Journeyman" floundering in its Mondays 10 pm / 9 pm central slot, there has been talk of a trade in showtimes between "Journeyman" and "Friday Night Lights".

While this is a risky venture - the post-"Heroes" timeslot could increase viewers for "Friday Night Lights", or expose the series's inability to get new people in the game - it shows that the network is trying to keep "Lights" going.

The continued and many comparisons to similarly lauded-but-underwatched "Veronica Mars" may also persuade NBC to let the show play out this season at least.

So, all things considered, fans of "Friday Night Lights" may very well have a full season to rejoice.

But, as always, the only sure way to avoid cancellation heartbreak is to persuade everyone and their Nielsen-having grandmas to tune in to the show. Whatever advertisers, critical reception, and bags and bags of peanuts may bring to the game, networks and Nielsen numbers are what matter in the end.

So if you want "Friday Night Lights" to continue lighting up your Friday nights (or possibly Monday nights), watch. It's that simple.

"Friday Night Lights" airs every Friday on NBC, at 9 pm / 8 pm central.

Gay.com Column: "Brothers and Sisters": The Gay Waiter and the Cancelled CBS Show

Already an exemplar of gay-friendliness on primetime television, "Brothers and Sisters" may soon be set to hit a trifecta of rainbow storylines.

Last week's episode saw the return of Luke MacFarlane's cater waiter Scotty Wandell. Ex-boyfriend to Matthew Rhys's eponymous brother Kevin Walker, the two had parted due to differences over class and money issues (hotshot lawyer Walker has both, Wandell not so much). In last week and this past Sunday's episodes, however, the two crossed paths because of a traffic violation, and they took baby steps towards becoming fast - if bed-free - friends.

Fans of MacFarlane may be disappointed at this platonic turnaround, but this decision has also occasioned a collective sigh of relief from others. Since Wandell's exit mid-last season, Walker had begun dating Jason McCallister, a missionary played by the sizzling Eric Winters. With that relationship officially only on hold - McCallister being packed off to Malaysia so Winters could do "Viva Laughlin" - it would have been at least unseemly for Walker to cheat on his long-distance boyfriend.

That being said, the character of Scotty Wandell looks set to stay, MacFarlane having been contracted for at least a third of this season. How the writers handle his arc, however, may become a cause for concern.

Executive producer Greg Berlanti has said he envisions Wandell as Walker's 'Mr. Big', but the allusion to "Sex and the City" does not follow through on this show: Carrie Bradshaw and Mr. Big had entire seasons of love and turmoil, while even in the debut season of "Brothers and Sisters", Wandell was but one of three equally-weighted love interests. If Walker and Wandell were indeed to follow a "City" template, it would be more along the lines of Miranda Hobbes and Steve Brady: a relationship (not The Relationship), followed by friendship and eventual true love. Of course, Hobbes and Brady were brought together by an unanticipated baby, so creator Jon Robin Baitz is going to have to get really, really creative, if he wants to bring to W and W the same believability as each other's soul-mates.

But what if they're not meant to be soul-mates, not even by the writers? Well, that's the other difficulty currently facing the writing team. If Wandell's character isn't being set up as Kevin Walker's One True Love, then what could fill in and justify his continued presence on the show? Characters have to evolve or risk becoming one-note creatures, and, short of giving Wandell storylines of his own, the only way to evolve him is to adjust his relationship to Walker.

As the situation is currently primed, it seems to me that the options are relatively clear-cut: either the writers make Kevin Walker a long-distance cheater, or they start making Wandell a character independent of Walker, or they reduce Wandell to the flat and one-note Recurring and Plot-Advancing Friend.

There are, of course, two other broad scenarios as yet left unmentioned. If Walker and McCallister were to be separated for whatever reason - the stress of maintaining a relationship across hemispheres, an unfortunate encounter with a deadly snake in Malaysia - the path would be cleared for a jackass-free W-W lovefest. This may have been the writers' plan had "Viva Laughlin" become a hit.

The operative word in that sentence, however, is at this point 'had'. Attacked by scathing reviews and hobbled by freefalling viewership numbers, 'Viva (No One's) Laughlin' has been officially cancelled by CBS. Which means that Winters is now free to entertain other opportunities - including, most likely, a call by the substantial McCallister fans to return to "Brothers and Sisters". The comparative popularity between Wandell and McCallister is of course impossible to judge, but the writers have to know that McCallister was also at least a fan favorite. And now that Winters is, as mentioned, free to entertain other opportunities, it would be seen as at least remiss should "Brothers and Sisters" not present such an offer. And with the show already an established critical and commercial darling, what are the chances, do you think, that Winters will say yes?

If this should indeed come to pass, then the other broad scenario would involve simultaneous storylines involving Walker, Wandell and McCallister. While I have no clue what specific storylines this scenario would entail, in my opinion this will go a long way towards freeing the writers to explore Wandell - without making him the constant if unspoken threat to an absent McCallister. While Wandell can only provide a listening ear so many times to long distance woes, advancing a Walker and McCallister storyline can only give Wandell more narrative places to go, especially as a single friend to one half of their couple.

It hardly needs saying that this is what I hope to see. With the LGBT credentials behind the "Brothers and Sisters" writing team, one of my personal wishes is to see the show tackle both platonic and romantic gay relationships. Should Jason McCallister make a return from (much too) far-off Malaysia, we would have a gay relationship (Kevin Walker and Jason McCallister), a gay friendship (Kevin Walker and Scotty Wandell), and a gay family storyline (Kevin Walker and his probably-closeted Uncle Saul) - all at the same time on one primetime program.

I wouldn't know what to call such a trifecta but a watershed television moment, so let's all hope that the much-deserving "Brothers and Sisters" is the first to make such history.

"Brothers and Sisters" airs Sundays on ABC, at 10 pm / 9 pm central.

Gay.com Column: "Prison Break": Are the writers losing their heads?

Shark-jumping. Ballsy. Cop-out. Game-changer. All these words and more were used to describe the beheading of Sara Tancredi.

Played by the fresh-faced Sarah Wayne Callies, Tancredi was the One True Love of Wentworth Miller's Michael Scofield. In the first season of "Prison Break", Scofield got himself sent to prison, the move part of a masterplan to spring his death-row brother. But the blueprint for their breakout was quickly complicated, as Scofield fell in love with prison doctor - and pawn - Tancredi. After a season's worth of agonizing will-they-won't-they tension, shippers everywhere were finally rewarded when Tancredi agreed to help in the escape. The prospective fall-out of her decision also ratcheted up anticipation for season two.

And man were fans not disappointed. Despite the sophomore season's uneven pacing, fireworks continued to fly between Scofield and Tancredi, as both were drawn deeper into a murderous conspiracy. Just as their relationship seemed about to materialize, however, Scofield chose to return to prison, taking the rap for Tancredi's killing of a conspiracy flunky who would have off'd them. Though this was a bittersweet finale for MiSa fans, they took comfort in the fact that there had to be a scorcher of a reunion. After all, their love for each other proved, what could keep Scofield and Tancredi from each other?

As it turned out, a very sharp hacksaw would do the trick. In the ongoing third season's biggest plot point so far, Tancredi, after being kidnapped alongside Scofield's nephew, was summarily beheaded by her kidnappers. The ostensible reason? Payback for a botched rescue attempt, and a warning that the nephew was next if the brothers did not do as told.

Of course, those in the know will recognize this reason as utter bullcrap. Since the summer, trouble has been on the horizon for this MiSa One True Pairing. After news surfaced about the pregnant Callies's contract negotiation problems, rumors began to circulate that Tancredi was not long for "Prison Break". After the release of the season three cast photos - from which Callies was conspicuously absent - the prospect of a MiSa happy ending seemed even more unlikely.

Still, judging from fans' outcry over Callies's abrupt departure, certainly this particular exit was probably not foreseen. Even two weeks after the now infamous episode, "Prison Break" fans are still debating the ethics of the exit. And considering the heated-ness of some of those debates - which include actor-producer negotiations and actors' professional versus personal responsibilities - the controversy is unlikely to abate soon, at least not in the "Prison Break" world.

However, rather than concentrate on the behind-the-scenes action, let's not forget that this is first and foremost an ongoing series. How will Sara Tancredi's beheading ripple through future episodes?

MiSa has always been an important component of the series. Whether viewers are also shippers or not, it remains a fact that season three is predicated on Scofield's sacrifice for Tancredi. So removing Scofield's One True Love is bound to leave a vacuum and, furthermore, leave the writers in a bind: if they don't replace Tancredi then they risk losing the romance-invested audience, but, if they do replace her, they risk making Scofield look like the world's giantest tool.

Regardless of their choice, however, the brutal death of Tancredi may already have done irreparable damage: with the decapitation of the character goes the last strong woman of the show, a demographic "Prison Break" has always had trouble portraying. Consider the show's track record with its leading women: season one's Veronica Donovan was held hostage twice, before being shot and dismembered; Sara Tancredi, before losing her head, was tortured horrifically and kidnapped. Considering the comparatively lighter punishment the men on the show have undergone, all this adds up to an indelibly misogynistic tone. This is a situation that is likely to lead to some problems.

Having said all this, however, there is one good outcome to this plot point: it sure as hell has created a lot of dramatic potential for the Scofield brothers. What will Michael Scofield do when he finds out what he's responsible for? And how will he feel when he learns that his brother has kept Tancredi's execution from him? To date, the series has not featured a substantial altercation between the fiercely devoted brothers, but, if anything will do the trick, this Tancredi situation will be it.

It's not the beheading that is really the issue at hand; it's more what route the writers will take having killed off Dr. Sara Tancredi. What characters have the new female actresses been hired to portray? How will the writers handle the fallout of the popular Tancredi's death? They have to know that they are on a very limited grace period, but, from this somewhat jaded and on-the-fence watcher, here's hoping that they manage somehow pull off a last-minute miracle.

Gay.com Column: Move it, "America's Next Top Model"

Yes, you’ve all watched the absolutely fabulous “America’s Next Top Model”. But how many of you have actually heard of “America’s Most Smartest Model”?

Premiering last week on Viacom’s VH1, the show features sixteen pretties fighting for the title of smartest. Competing weekly in “bifurcated challenges” – that’s two challenges per episode for wols-es like you and me – the models have to keep their pretty on while desperately searching for their neurons.

And the premiere pulls no punches as it rolls out the format and its contestants. Refreshingly self-aware of its utter ridiculousness, the show plunges into its first contests with a maximum of glee and hilarity.

First up is the ‘Edge’ challenge, where the winner will get an advantage (or edge) in the later elimination ‘Callback’. In perhaps the funniest reality challenge ever screened on television, the legal-to-drink contestants are put to a classic American test – the spelling bee.

Beginning with piece-of-cake words like ‘blue’ and ‘Fendi’ and ‘weightlifting’ (you gotta remember here that these are models that we are talking about), the episode goes on to reveal its genius in the later more difficult rounds.

Playgirl slash possible porn star Mandy Lynn is asked to spell the word ‘collagen’ – to which she has a fantastic comeback that could only come from a Playgirl. Then there is the Argentinean Gaston ‘Too Sexy For America’ Willig, who not only asks for the definition but also for the usage of ‘nincompoop’. And we haven’t even mentioned the resident catbitch of the bunch – a black male himbo named Jesse who is straight out of “Zoolander” casting.

But just when it seems like the show can’t possibly get any more hilarious, it’s time for the ‘Callback’ challenge that mixes modeling with general knowledge questions. Asked to catwalk while naming as many items as they can from totally random categories, the models fall victim to nerves and idiocy as the sound effects swerve into wacky-town. And we'll only say that there's a very good reason why the premiere is titled 'Balls, Cherries, Balloons, Tires'.

Of course in the end there is elimination, and there are grand prizes waiting and all that stuff. But for once – and this is such a rarity – there is hardly any self-important seriousness. Even the co-hosts of the program are seemingly in on the wink-wink fun: just watch as Mary Alice Stephenson glees over a contestant that she can pet-project personally, and as Ben ‘that guy from Ferris Bueller’ Stein gets all old-man-lecherous with Mandy Lynn.

With multiple airings around the clock, there’s really no reason to miss this infinitely more watchable and must-watchable “America’s…”. But if you really need one more compelling reason to tune in from here on out: the second episode will feature a few contestants modeling buck-naked. Go to the show’s website and take a look at the diverse Adonises and Aphroditeses, and we promise there'll be at least one person you'd even pay to see buck-naked.

"America's Most Smartest Model" airs mornings, afternoons and evenings, all week all the time on the VH1 channel. Go here to find the best showtime that will fit into your busy schedule.

Gay.com Column: Dweebtime Update: "Reaper"

Ah, the CW. One moment it's gutsying up with shows like "Aliens in America", and the next it's soaping up primetime with the likes of "One Tree Hill".

In the network's entry into this TV season's dweebfight, Bret Harrison ("Grounded for Life", "The Loop") top-bills as Sam, a nerd whose soul has been promised to the Devil. Satan-bound to track down escapees from Hell, Sam takes on demons a la predecessor "Charmed", all the while fighting his manifest destiny.

Yes, the premise of "Reaper" wavers between ludicrous and generic, but the show managed to somehow finagle some serious talent pre-pilot. Ray Wise brings his slick and charm to the recurring and dapper Satan, while noted filmmaker Kevin Smith signed on to direct the series premiere.

Despite the clout of these two names, however, all is not well within the Reaperverse. The problem is, three episodes in, Wise and Smith remain the best things about the show thus far. While Harrison's innate geekitude is still on this side of adorable, Sam's kicked-puppy character is on the very verge of annoying.

Add to that a cast of supporting characters that's variously bland (Missy Peregrym's 'Andi') or polarizing (Tyler Labine's 'Sock'), and "Reaper" may not end up reaping all the eyeballs that it needs.

Thankfully, it is on the CW, where eyeball requirements are generally lower. Also, given the network's history of unpredictability, "Reaper" may yet turn out to be more "Veronica Mars" than "Hidden Palms". The show will also benefit from its fortuitous timeslot, where it faces off with "House", "The Unit", and the "Dancing with the Stars" results show. This will give it the time it needs, since upcoming episodes will be crucial. The show needs to find its soul, and find it pronto - or risk ending up on this TV season's 'Doomed' list.

If you intend to add your name to Satan's register: Have an exit strategy. Even as you proclaim yourself the show's loyal henchbitch, leave room to plead demonic possession in case it crash and burns.

"Reaper" hopes to get your soul on Tuesdays on the CW, 9 pm / 8 pm central.

Gay.com Column: Dweebtime Update: "Chuck"

For every freshman hit on primetime television, you can expect a surge of wannabes the very next TV season. When "Lost" became the 2004-2005 season's biggest find, fall 2005 premiered the also-otherworldly "Invasion", "Surface", "Threshold" and "Supernatural".

This TV season is no different. Last fall NBC developed superpowered ratings, thanks to a coterie of unlikely "Heroes". This fall, we have not one, not two, but three new primetime shows about dweebs with magic DNA. Can these newly-arrived geeks survive their cut-throat timeslots, and, more importantly, which nerd(s) will you want to keep on your busy DVR schedule? Hopefully the Dweebtime Update will answer some of these questions, and hopefully with it you won't have to develop dweeb-cancellation heartbreak.



The Most Nerdtastic James Bond Ever

He pairs up his shirts with pocket protectors, and works at an electronics department called the Nerd Herd. And even though NBC's eponymous "Chuck" is played by the totally cute Zachary Levi, the character needs his sister to set him up with women.

Luckily for Chuck, the (not really) geek has two weapons on his side: the law of television that geeks must be secretly awesome, and an email that transforms his brain into a database of CIA secrets.

Whether this unlikely James Bond can survive his first network foray, however, is a question still very much in the air.

The NBC promotional machine is in full throttle for "Heroes", so "Chuck" has to battle by itself against returnees "Dancing with the Stars", "Prison Break" and "How I Met Your Mother" - all established and well-liked shows.

Even its credits read like 'yes, but' assets: even though co-creator Josh Schwartz helmed the wildly popular first season of "The O.C.", these days people are more likely to remember the stinkbombs that were the later seasons. And even though fans of cult favorite "Veronica Mars" may follow "Mars" writer Phil Klemmer to "Chuck", there aren't enough Martians to make even a blip on the all important Nielsens.

The best hope for a second outing, ironically, may lie in the low buzz around the show: if it even gets "Monk" or "Medium" midrange numbers, that should be enough for this second-string NBC agent.

Survival Tip: If you're a Chuckhead (Chucklehead?) or intend to become one, keep this show alive by directing people to Levi's IMDb page: the guy's actually not just dorkily cute, but a full-on hottie kept geek-bound for now. Once you've done that, sit back and watch as "Chuck" kicks ass, thanks to those tuning in in anticipation of hotness.

"Chuck" airs on NBC on Mondays at 8 pm / 7 pm central.

Gay.com Column: Bald(win) Ambition

Coming up on TV screens this fall: the battle of the Baldwin brothers! Though not competing in the same timeslot, eldest Alec and third out of four Billy will be starring in heavyweight shows – on rival networks. Alec has the advantage now, with one season of the critically acclaimed “30 Rock” already under his belt. But whether the NBC comedy can draw as many eyeballs as ABC drama upstart “Dirty Sexy Money” – well, that’s something we’ll only know when the winter hiatus is upon us.

Whatever the result of Baldwin vs. Baldwin, however, viewers can only stand to gain. Alec’s hilariously oily Jack Donaghy has already been the toast of the town; and, sure, Billy’s a wild card quality-wise, but anyone who’s seen him in “Fair Game” with Cindy Crawford will know that he’s always good for a laugh too, even if it’s not with him.

And in any case the success of any Baldwin should be roundly cheered, if only because they’ve had it really bad the past couple of... decades. Anyone remember Billy’s “One Eyed King” or “You Stupid Man”? Not even information-whore Wikipedia will acknowledge those movies. And though Alec’s trod a less cringe-worthy silver screen path with films like “The Departed” and “Running With Scissors”, there’s still “The SpongeBob Square Pants Movie” to be considered long and hard. Not to mention “Fun with Dick and Jane”.

And we haven’t even considered what this might do for second and fourth Baldwins Daniel and Stephen. Doesn’t the prospect of an all-Baldwin showdown make you all warm and tingly inside? That idea alone is going to make me tune in to “30 Rock” and “Dirty Sexy Money” religiously.

So if you want to stump for a Baldwin quartet on primetime television, don’t forget to tune into NBC’s “30 Rock” on Thursdays at 8.30 pm / 7.30 pm central, and ABC’s “Dirty Sexy Money” on Wednesdays at 10 pm / 9 pm central.

*** Since this article I have detected the stealthy presence of one Adam Baldwin on NBC’s dweeb-CIA dramedy “Chuck”. While I’m disappointed to learn that said Baldwin is not in fact an illegitimate brother to our quartet, this only proves that a Baldwin resurgence is at hand. Memo to network executives: time to capitalize!

Story: Tell Me Anything

He sat at his desk. She grated cheese in the kitchen.

As his practiced fingers danced on the keyboard, he thought about the letter in the drawer.

As ivory confetti fell into the big glass bowl, she listened to the sounds of a silent apartment. They seemed all around her, the susurrus that emanated from the walls, the more insistent hhhhhnghhhhh of the fridge, the padded pulse of the party upstairs. Even the ghosting of air from room to room.

He tried to concentrate on the screen, but the corners of his eyes tightened. The glare touched his eyes, then wrapped around his eyeballs. He tried for a minute more. And then he pulled the lid of his laptop down.

She thought she heard a sound, so she leaned sideways to peer, but all she saw was his smiling face. Tired, but smiling, as always. She looked at him for a little while, and then she pulled herself back to an upright position. And then she took a swig from the bottle of Baileys.

He could sense her looking again, but he said nothing. He wasn’t worried about what to say. He was worried about what he would say if she replied.

She grated her cheese, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

It was better to think about her, these days. He especially liked going back to their first half an hour. He closed his eyes, and a moment later he saw her: bent at the waist over the remainder bin, and then she was standing, a glossy hardcover in her hand. His name was stamped on the spine in steady block letters. Cream. His name matched her hair. He had smiled, and then filed the sentence away. It was a good line.

She teased him about that smile many times. A plastic smile any woman can kiss, only thirteen dollars and fifty cents. Most of the time she said it in an ironic voice. Unless she’s stupid enough to pay full price. She smiled now, at that memory, and at others. He used to tell her she was lucky she got to kiss the real deal for free. Her lips froze at that; within seconds there was a solid, blocky smile on her face.

He felt tiny weights lining his closed eyelids. She stopped grating, put the triangle down on its ragged side, and wiped the back of her hand across her lips. After that she just sat, staring. He burst open his eyes, and then – blinked.

He stood up, the back of his knees scraping the chair away. He looked at all the books on the shelves of his desk, and it suddenly seemed wrong that the books were stolidly in their places. He could still sense her looking; at that moment he wanted nothing more than for her to leave him alone. He looked at the books, and nursed the feeling until it grew steadily in his sternum. As it spread through his ribcage. As it leeched into the hollows at the outlines of his chest. He could feel it pause at his shoulders, and he urged it on. Just a little bit farther. But then it receded, and then it receded, and then it receded. And once it was gone it was gone, leaving behind only a strained relief. He shook his head. He suspected he would have balked at the end anyway. He did not like being noisy.

Her eyes hurt and her chest hurt. She waited a moment more, just a moment more, but nothing happened. So she blinked, and then she blinked again, and then she took a handful of cheese and stuffed it in her mouth.

He looked out into the careless flashing light of Shenton Way.

She chewed the strips of Stilton in her mouth. She thought about leaving the bowl out, just in case, but that was stupid and she was not stupid. He was not a Stilton man; never had been, and never would be. When they went into the cheese store on Third for the first time she’d told him it was a blue cheese. He’d looked at it, then said with a joke in his voice, Yet another thing in America pretending to be white, I see. And then an instant, and then he’d grimaced so she couldn’t miss it. But because he never said it again, she pretended he never had.

He turned away from the window. She swallowed and took another handful.

The letter was still in the drawer. He pushed the drawer slowly, watching the letter disappear centimeter by centimeter. And then he pulled the drawer out again. The letter was still in the drawer.

The noises were crowding her. The cheese felt ganky in her mouth, and it gummed her back teeth. She turned and spit the mouthful onto the floor, and then instantly wondered if that was too much. She felt like a fraud for acting out.

He took the letter. As he looked at the handwriting on the envelope, dominoes in mid-fall from left to right, a sound thumped in the apartment somewhere. He wondered if it was she, and then he shrugged. Nonchalantly. Suddenly feeling a little foolish, he flipped the envelope over and took out the sheets of paper. They smelled of lavender two seasons old. This time I’m arriving on the fifteenth at five in the afternoon. You better be holding a bottle of Baileys when I see you. She would have written “15th” and “5 am”, except he’d asked her once whether the entire department was sloppy. She’d said the word ‘sloppy’ was sloppy, and then she’d put on her best teenager’s voice and said, “What”. She told him her students loved her impressions. He usually refrained from replying. Or he rolled his eyes and then pulled her close.

As she threw the sodden tissues away she thought about going home. The flight had been booked, but it could be brought forward. She was looking forward to seeing her students again. She would go to the cheese store and pay a normal price for her Stiltons again, she would even look forward to apartment-hunting, to filling out forms. But like an uninvited guest a thought barged into her head and lodged itself: she wondered if he would follow her.

He stared at the cursive handwriting until the letters unlinked. Suddenly, a voice in his head said, This was the type of woman Mrs. X was: on envelopes she wrote in black block letters, but in letters she was curls and lavender scents. It was a good line. He filed it away. He had become Christopher Fucking Robison.

She stood up and took the big bowl of cheese. She cradled it in one arm as she pulled the refrigerator door, and then suddenly she paused. After a moment, she kept the door open with one foot, and then took the bowl by its rim with her free hand. She held the bowl by its rim as she slid it into the refrigerator. When she was done, she stepped into the hallway to look at him again. He was still smiling. Of course. She needed another long slow swig.

She had been holding a bottle of Baileys. He had been holding a bottle of Baileys. You can’t. Get drunk. On That Shit, was what she said, every time. Tough Chick Rapping, she called it. She was high on the adrenaline of an eighteen-hour flight, her eyes shadowed and shining. He was high on the writing of a passage he secretly loved. They were adult children, basically, and after two bottles of Baileys they fucked like adults with the enthusiasm of children. And the carelessness. He heard her giggles as he put the letter back in the drawer. He shook his head, and suddenly felt tired and in need of food.

She took one step towards him, Baileys in hand. And then another. She suddenly became aware that she was tiptoeing. On her ninth step the skin on her upper left arm twinged. She ignored it as she ignored all the other phantom pains.

He stared at it for a while, and then he took the bowl of Stilton cheese out, and dumped it, cheese and bowl, into the trashcan.

She looked at him now, him with his smiling face. She pressed her lips against the acrylic shield, against that plastic smile, feeling a little morbid. My parents’ idea, he’d said, reddening. He reddened the same way whenever he told people who his parents were. Asian parents like to keep trophies, and they like their sons to keep trophies too. She’d said, grinning, In their living rooms no less, I see. Later, when he’d told her, It isn’t the right time, it had been his mother’s voice that she heard.

He sat on the chair in the kitchen. She thought about punching the picture.

He thought of her butt on the downy cushion. She loved to sit in this chair stuffing her face with cheese. She made a face at him whenever he said that. He thought of that, and he thought of the Stilton in the trashcan. He thought of L’Ecole, and Starbucks, and Forever 21, and the East Village Cinema, and Dulce de Leche, and Kiehls’ Facial Fuel. Then he thought about Orchard Road, and char kway tiao, and durians and her revolted face, and malls connected by walkways, exhausted days and exceeded budgets, and rain thunderstorming outside on quilt blanket days. Then there was nothing left to think about. Nothing except the sullen summer past, and the hours stretched between patience and deliberate ignorance, and everything else.

She was in his room now. She had to remind herself of that. It seemed too empty to be his room. She trailed a finger across his desk, and looked around the empty room again. Through the window she could see the traffic light on Shenton Way flashing, green, green, red. She hoisted herself up his desk, wobbled to adjust her butt, and then sat watching the flashes. Every change of the light made her feel a little less – made her feel a little less.

She did it, and they had decided not to talk about it. Both of them had decided. So they filled the silence with sounds, but they couldn’t get rid of the other silence, the silence that bounced off the walls and settled on their shoulders, the silence of other people having fun, the silence of a ghost in the room with them. He heard it now too. There were more ghosts now. He could sense her, sometimes.

They had stood at that very street corner, beneath that traffic light. He’d taken her hand awkwardly while they walked home from the movie, she’d gradually slid her hand away again, his face had set in rigid impassiveness. Then, under the traffic light, while they waited, she had finally shouted, after weeks and weeks of silence. The summer was ending and the flight was only two days away, and she could not bear the thought of going home with those words still in her. You don’t want to talk about it? You think I’m afraid to shout here? I’ll shout as loud as I want, so why don’t you walk away, huh? Are you staying so you can take notes? Where’s your fucking notebook, huh? Eight years I’ve never seen you without your notebook. Where is it, huh?

They were two adults shouting like children, flinging and hurling every stone they could scrape up. He’d done his share of the shouting, and more. You’re a twenty-nine year old teenager. What did you want me to do?

Hurting. You’re a remainder-bin writer who underlines errors in other people’s books.

Pushing. Yeah. Tell me again, what are those files you’re hiding away in that folder in your laptop? Yeah, I thought so. At least I took a chance once.

Is that why you went to Paolini’s book signing? Is that why you told him about the “continuity mistake”? A nineteen year-old and he doesn’t even know you exist. Sucks, doesn’t it?

Stilton cheese? Stilton. Cheese? Stilton cheese and Baileys? Who does that? That’s fucked up, you know that? And you think wearing Donna Karen with J-Crew makes you eclectic? Interesting? It doesn’t. You’re still a high-school teacher, teaching high-school kids and going nowhere. And that’s not going to change no matter how hip and cool you try to make yourself.

Your parents made you hang up that picture. Yeah, right.

Tell me why all your previous boyfriends were also bananas. Go on. Tell me.

What about you? “Yet another thing in American pretending to be white”? Passive-aggressive, much? You think I haven’t seen the way you look at Singaporean women? You think I don’t know why you like coming to America so much? You’re fucked up, that’s what you are. What, not blaming this on your parents as well?

You can’t even keep to a hundred dollar budget. What makes you think you can deal with a baby?

I can’t deal with a baby? Please. You’re the one with the commitment problem. Is your second book coming, huh? Ever? Guess not, huh. What do you do with your days? Sit around and read those ‘promising debut’ reviews?

Fuck you.

Fuck. You.


And then later, when the anger had burned itself out:

I’m tired of being around you. You make me feel like I need to be saying something, even when I am.

You smiled at me once like it meant something. But then I saw you smile the same way at your students, at the flight staff, even at the fucking 7-11 cashier. What happened to us? You and me?


And yet later:

I don’t want to talk to you anymore.

I don’t, either. In fact I’d like nothing better if we never talked to each other ever again. That would be great. That would be heaven.

She’d gotten up, and started walking. He didn’t call her name.


The traffic light was blurring, but she kept looking at it, and she forced herself to think about the drive to the airport two days later. Two days of silence later.
He stayed in the chair, and he thought about the silence in the car. Silence, silence, silence. And then right after the roar of metal crunching, as they were spinning weightlessly across tarmac, a silence as if light itself had been sucked out of existence. They were voiceless.

And then it was over. I’m sorry. We did everything that we could.

Something was gripping her chest. She had trouble breathing, and then the room swirled around her for a moment. And then she felt a sharp pain around her shoulders, and then – nothing. Nothing. There was only the slightly inadequate feeling of exhaustion left. And even that felt – silly, after a while. She pushed herself off the desk slowly, and left the room. The couch in the living room caught her eye, so she went to it, and sank into its left side. Her side.

He felt stretched. Thinking about it always made him feel that way, in the end. He’d lost count of how many times he’d thought about it, just to feel the sharpness of letting go at the end, just to feel the blunted weariness afterwards. Then he felt self-conscious, again. The television. He needed noise.

The couch felt soft and yielding at the back of her neck. She thought about him, about his inky hair and eyes, about the cremation, about the half of the ashes given to her two days ago. She thought about going home, and then she wondered if he was somewhere in the room, somehow, watching her. She did not think it was entirely impossible. Sometimes she saw him, in the second after she turned, through the crack of a door swinging shut, in the moments when dream and waking merged, as a shadow if she stared until the world turned purple. And then there were the times she was sure he was there, somehow, in the chair, at his desk, only invisible to her.

The right side of the couch received him like forgiveness. He let the seconds of a minute pass by, less silent, more quiet. Then he took the remote and pressed the red power button. Gunshots and sirens. Then the picture came on, a movie they’d seen six thousand times. He said it was fun. She called it the cockroach of movies. He could sense her, again. Sometimes it felt like if he had the right word she would be there when he turned.

“Tell me what I need to do,” she said, softly. She did not know if they were the right words, but it felt good to know that those words were in the air, that they might fold into the other noises and linger after she was gone. Until he heard them, somehow, wherever he was. Then maybe there would be a sign.

The television suddenly blipped “what I”, and then the gunshots resumed, but he was still tense. A clear sign, a clear sign was all he asked, every day. But nothing else happened. He shook his head and sank into the couch again, half-snorting at his own credulity. And then he said, “Please”. And then – “I’m sorry.” Just in case.

She shifted to a lying position, head resting on the left arm of the couch, legs lopped over the right arm. Sometimes when she was tired enough the right arm felt like his thighs.

He closed his eyes and let the television’s blare wash over him. His hand crept to the left side of the couch, and stayed there.

Her eyes closed.

His mind wandered.


And soon they were dreaming of hearing each other again.



(Revision)



He sat at his desk. She grated cheese in the kitchen.

As his practiced fingers jabbed at the keyboard, he thought about the letter in the drawer.

As pale white shreds fell into the big glass bowl, she listened to the sounds of a silent apartment. They seemed all around her, the susurrus that emanated from the walls, the more insistent hhhhhnghhhhh of the fridge, the padded pulse of the party upstairs. Even the ghosting of air from room to room.

He tried to concentrate on the screen, but the corners of his eyes tightened. The glare touched his eyes, then limned his eyeballs. He tried for a minute more. And then he pulled the lid of his laptop down.

She thought she heard a sound, so she leaned sideways to peer, but all she saw was his smiling face. Tired, but smiling, as always. She looked at him for a little while, and then she pulled back to an upright position. And then she chugged the bottle of Baileys.

He could sense her looking again, but he said nothing. He wasn’t worried about what to say. He was worried about what he would say if she replied.

She grated her cheese, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

It was better to think about her, these days. He especially liked going back to their first half an hour. He closed his eyes, and a moment later he saw her: bent at the waist over the remainder bin, and then she was standing, a glossy hardcover in her hand. His name was stamped on the spine in steady block letters, cream on red. His name matched her hair. He had smiled, and then filed the sentence away. It was a good line.

She teased him about that smile many times. A plastic smile any woman can kiss, only thirteen dollars and fifty cents. Most of the time she said it in an ironic voice. Unless she’s stupid enough to pay full price. She smiled now, at that memory, and at others. He used to tell her she was lucky she got to kiss the real deal for free. Her lips froze at that; a solid, blocky smile fixed her face in place.

He felt tiny weights lining his closed eyelids. She stopped grating, put the triangle down on its ragged side, and wiped the back of her hand across her lips. After that she just sat, staring. He burst open his eyes, and then – blinked.

He stood up, the chair wobbling against the back of his knees. He looked at the books lining the shelves of his desk, and it seemed suddenly wrong that they were abreast. He could still sense her looking. He looked at the books, and nursed the wrongness until it lurched in his sternum, like liquid lead. It spread through his ribcage, and leeched into the hollows at the outlines of his chest. He could feel it pause at his shoulders, and he urged it on. Just a little bit farther. But then it receded, and then it receded, and then it receded. And once it was gone it was gone, leaving behind only a strained relief. He shook his head. He suspected he would have balked at the end anyway. He did not like being noisy.

Her eyes hurt and her chest hurt. She waited a moment more, just a moment more, but nothing happened. So she blinked, and the purple patina vanished, so she blinked again, and then she took a handful of cheese and stuffed it in her mouth.

He traced on his window the flashing light of Shenton Way.

She chewed the strips of Stilton in her mouth. She thought about leaving the bowl out, just in case, but then she shook her head at the stupidity. He was not a Stilton man; never was, and never would be. When they went into the cheese store on Third for the first time she’d told him it was a blue cheese. He’d looked at it, then said with a joke in his voice, Yet another thing in America pretending to be white, I see. And then an instant, and then he’d grimaced so she couldn’t miss it. But because he never said it again, she pretended he never had.

He turned away from the window. She swallowed and raked another handful.

The letter was still in the drawer. He pushed the drawer slowly, watching the letter disappear centimeter by centimeter. And then he pulled the drawer again.

The noises were crowding her. The cheese felt ganky in her mouth, and it gummed her back teeth. She turned and spit the mouthful onto the floor, and then instantly worried about a stain. She felt like a fraud for acting out.

He took the letter. As he looked at the handwriting on the envelope, dominoes in mid-fall from left to right, a sound thumped in the apartment somewhere. He wondered if it was she, and then he shrugged. Nonchalantly. Suddenly feeling a little foolish, he flipped the envelope over and took out the sheets of paper. They smelled of lavender two seasons old. This time I’m arriving on the fifteenth at five in the afternoon. You better be holding a bottle of Baileys when I see you. She would have written “15th” and “5 pm”, except he’d asked her once whether she was as sloppy when she taught. She’d said the word ‘sloppy’ was sloppy, and then she’d put on her best teenager’s voice and said, “What”. She never said it as a question, only as a playful challenge. Then she’d tell him her students loved her impressions. He usually refrained from replying. Or he rolled his eyes and then pulled her close.

As she threw the sodden tissues away she thought about going home. The flight had been booked, but she could negotiate an earlier date. She was looking forward to seeing her students again. She would go to the cheese store and pay a normal price for her Stiltons again, she would even look forward to apartment-hunting, to filling out forms. But then a thought barged into her head and lodged itself: she wondered if he would follow her.

He stared at the handwriting until the flowing lines smudged. Suddenly, a voice in his head said, This was the type of woman Mrs. X was: on envelopes she wrote in black block letters, but in letters she was curls and lavender scents. It was a good line. He filed it away. He had become Christopher Fucking Robison.

She stood up and took the big bowl of cheese. She cradled it in one arm as she pulled the refrigerator door, and then suddenly she paused, aware of the flatness of her stomach. After a moment, she used a foot to keep the door open, and then took the bowl by its rim with her free hand. After she slid it into the refrigerator, she stepped into the hallway to look at him again. He was still smiling. Of course. She needed another long slow swig.

She had been holding a bottle of Baileys. He had been holding a bottle of Baileys. You can’t. Get drunk. On That Shit, was what she said, every time. Tough Chick Rapping, she called it. She was high on the adrenaline of an eighteen-hour flight, her eyes shadowed and shining. He was high on the writing of a passage he secretly loved. They were adult children, basically, and after two bottles of Baileys they fucked like adults with the enthusiasm of children. And the carelessness. He heard her giggles as he put the letter back in the drawer. He shook his head, and felt tired and in need of food.

She took one step towards him, Baileys in hand. And then another. She suddenly became aware that she was tiptoeing. On her ninth step the skin on her upper left arm twinged. She ignored it as she ignored all the other phantom pains.

He stared at it for a while, and then he took the bowl of moldy cheese out, and dumped it, cheese and bowl, into the trashcan. He scuffed his foot against the floor, getting rid of something sticky.

She looked at him now, him with his smiling face. She pressed her lips against the acrylic shield, against that fourteen-dollar plastic smile, feeling a little morbid. My parents’ idea, he’d said, reddening. He reddened the same way whenever he told people who his parents were. Asian parents like to keep trophies, and they like their sons to keep trophies too. She’d said, grinning, In large print and in their living rooms, I see. Later, when he’d told her, It isn’t the right time, it had been his mother’s voice that she heard.

He sat on the chair in the kitchen. She thought about punching his smile.

He thought of her butt on the downy cushion. She loved to sit in this chair stuffing her face with cheese. She made a face at him whenever he said that. He thought of that, and he thought of the Stilton in the trashcan. He thought of L’Ecole, and Starbucks, and Forever 21, and the East Village Cinema, and Dulce de Leche, and Kiehls’ Facial Fuel. Then he thought about Orchard Road, and char kway tiao, and durians and her revolted face, and malls connected by walkways, exhausted days and exceeded budgets, and rain thunderstorming outside on quilt blanket days. Then there was nothing left. Nothing except the sullen summer past, and the hours stretched between patience and deliberate ignorance, and everything else.

She was in his room now. She had to remind herself of that. It seemed too empty to be his room. She trailed a finger across his desk, and looked around the empty room again. Through the window she could see the traffic light on Shenton Way flashing, green, green, red. She hoisted herself up his desk, wobbled to adjust her butt, and then sat watching the flashes. Every change of the light made her feel a little less – made her feel a little less.

She’d gotten the abortion, and they had decided not to talk about it. Both of them had decided. So they filled the silence with sounds, but they couldn’t get rid of the other silence, the silence that bounced off the walls and settled on their shoulders, the silence of other people having fun, the silence of a ghost in the room with them. He heard it now too. There were more ghosts now. He could sense her, sometimes.

They had stood at that very street corner, beneath that traffic light. He’d taken her hand awkwardly while they walked home from the movie, she’d gradually slid her hand away again, his face had set in rigid impassiveness. Then, under the traffic light, while they waited, she had finally shouted, after weeks and weeks of silence. The summer was ending and the flight was only two days away, and she could not bear the thought of going home with those words still in her. You don’t want to talk about it? You think I’m afraid to shout here? I’ll shout as loud as I want, so why don’t you walk away, huh? Are you staying so you can take notes? Where’s your fucking notebook, huh? Eight years I’ve never seen you without your notebook. Where is it, huh?

They were two adults shouting like children, flinging and hurling every stone they could scrape up. He’d done his share of the shouting, and more. You’re a twenty-nine year old teenager. I asked you if it wasn’t the right time, and you agreed. What did you want me to do?

Hurting. You’re a remainder-bin writer who underlines errors in other people’s books.

Pushing. Yeah. Tell me again, what are those files you’re hiding away in that folder in your laptop? Yeah, I thought so. At least I took a chance once.

Is that why you went to Paolini’s book signing? Is that why you told him about the “continuity mistake”? A nineteen year-old and he doesn’t even know you exist. Sucks, doesn’t it?

Stilton cheese? Stilton. Cheese? Stilton cheese and Baileys? Who does that? That’s fucked up, you know that? And you think wearing Donna Karen with J-Crew makes you eclectic? Interesting? It doesn’t. You’re still a high-school teacher, teaching high-school kids and going nowhere. And that’s not going to change no matter how hip and cool you try to make yourself.

Your parents made you hang up that picture. Yeah, right.

Tell me why all your previous boyfriends were also bananas. Go on. Tell me.

What about you? “Yet another thing in American pretending to be white”? Passive-aggressive, much? You think I haven’t seen the way you look at Singaporean women? You think I don’t know why you like coming to America so much? You’re fucked up, that’s what you are. What, not blaming this on your parents as well?

You can’t even keep to a hundred dollar budget. What makes you think you can deal with a baby?

I can’t deal with a baby? Please. You’re the one with the commitment problem. Is your second book coming, huh? Ever? Guess not, huh. What do you do with your days? Sit around and read those ‘promising debut’ reviews?

Fuck you.

Fuck. You.


And then later, when the anger had burned itself out:

I’m tired of being around you. You make me feel like I need to be saying something, even when I am.

You smiled at me once like it meant something. But then I saw you smile the same way at your students, at the flight staff, even at the fucking 7-11 cashier. What happened to us? You and me?


And yet later:

I don’t want to talk to you anymore.

I don’t, either. In fact I’d like nothing better if we never talked to each other ever again. That would be great. That would be heaven.

She’d gotten up, and started walking. He didn’t call her name.


The traffic light was blurring, but she kept looking at it, and she forced herself to think about the drive to the airport two days later.

He stayed in the chair, and he thought about the silence in the car. Silence, silence, silence. And then right after the roar of metal crunching, as they were spinning and floating across tarmac, a silence as if light itself had been sucked out of existence. They were voiceless.

And then it was over.

I’m sorry. We did everything that we could.

Something was gripping her chest. She had trouble breathing, and then the room swirled around her for a moment. And then she felt a sharp pain around her shoulders, and then – nothing. Nothing. There was only the pulling of exhaustion left. And even that felt – silly, after a while. She pushed herself off the desk slowly, and left the room. The couch in the living room caught her eye, so she went to it, and sank into its left side. Her side.

He felt stretched. Thinking about it always made him feel that way, in the end. He’d lost count of how many times he’d thought about it, just to feel the sharpness of letting go at the end, just to feel the blunted weariness afterwards. Then he felt self-conscious, again. It was the same feeling he’d felt when her father had cried. The television. He needed noise.

The couch felt soft and yielding at the back of her neck. She thought about him, about his inky hair and eyes, about the cremation, about the half of the ashes given to her two days ago. She thought about going home, and then she wondered if he was somewhere in the room, somehow, watching her. She did not think it was entirely impossible. Sometimes she saw him, in the second after she turned, through the crack of a door swinging shut, in the moments when dream and waking merged, as a shadow if she stared until the world turned purple. And then there were the times she was sure he was there, somehow, in the chair, at his desk, only invisible to her.

The right side of the couch received him like forgiveness. He let the seconds of a minute slide by, less silent, more quiet. Then he took the remote and pressed the red power button. Gunshots and sirens. Then the picture came on, a movie they’d seen six thousand times. He said it was fun. She called it the cockroach of movies. He could sense her, again. Sometimes it felt like if he had the right word she would be there when he turned.

“Tell me what I need to do,” she said, softly. She did not know if they were the right words, but it felt good to know that those words were in the air, that they might fold into the other noises and linger after she was gone. Until he heard them, somehow, wherever he was. Then maybe there would be a sign.

The television suddenly blipped “what I”, and then the gunshots resumed, but he was still tense. A clear sign, a clear sign was all he asked, every day. But nothing else happened. He shook his head and sank into the couch again, half-snorting at his own credulity. And then he said, “Please”. And then – “I’m sorry.” Just in case.

She shifted to a lying position, head resting on the left arm of the couch, legs lopped over the right arm. Sometimes when she was tired enough the right arm felt like his thighs.

He closed his eyes and let the television’s blare wash over him. His hand crept to the left side of the couch, and stayed there.

Her eyes closed.

His mind wandered.

And in their dreams they heard each other again.



(Revision)



He sat at his desk. She grated cheese in the kitchen.

As his practiced fingers jabbed at the keyboard, he thought about the letter in the drawer.

As pale white shreds drifted into the bowl, she listened to the sounds of a silent apartment. They seemed all around her, the susurrus that emanated from the walls, the more insistent hhhhhnghhhhh of the fridge, the padded pulse of the party upstairs. Even the ghosting of air from room to room.

He tried to concentrate on the screen, but the corners of his eyes tightened. The glare touched his eyes, then limned his eyeballs. He tried for a minute more. And then with a grunt he pulled the lid of his laptop down.

She thought she heard a noise, so she leaned sideways to peer, but all she saw was his smiling face. Tired, but smiling, as always. She looked at him for a little while, and then she pulled back to an upright position. And then she chugged the bottle of Baileys.

He could sense her gaze again, but he said nothing. He wasn’t worried about what to say. He was worried about what he would say if she replied.

She grated her cheese, back, and forth, back, and forth, back, and forth.

It was better to think about her, these days. He especially liked their first half an hour. He closed his eyes, and a moment later he saw her: bent at the waist over the remainder bin, and then she was standing, a glossy hardcover in her hand. His name was stamped on the spine in steady cream letters. His name matched her hair. He had smiled, and then filed the sentence away. It was a good line.

She teased him about that smile many times. A plastic smile any woman can kiss, only thirteen dollars and fifty cents. Most of the time she said it in an ironic voice. Unless she’s stupid enough to pay full price. She smiled now, at that memory, and at others. He used to tell her she was lucky she got to kiss the real deal for free. Her lips froze at that; a solid, blocky smile fixed her face in place.

He felt tiny weights lining his closed eyelids. She stopped grating, put the triangle down on its ragged side, and wiped the back of her hand across her lips. He burst open his eyes, and then – blinked. She sat, staring.

He stood up, the chair wobbling against the back of his knees. He looked at the books lining the shelves of his desk, and it seemed suddenly wrong that they were abreast. He could still sense her looking. He looked at the books, and nursed the wrongness until it lurched in his sternum, like liquid lead. It spread through his ribcage, and leeched into the hollows at the outlines of his chest. He could feel it pause at his shoulders, and he urged it on. Just a little bit farther. But then it receded, and then it receded, and then it receded. And once it was gone it was gone, leaving behind only a strained relief. He shook his head. He suspected he would have balked at the end anyway. He did not like being noisy.

Her eyes hurt and her chest hurt. She waited a moment more, just a moment more, but nothing happened. So she blinked, and the purple patina vanished, so she blinked again, and then she took a handful of cheese and stuffed it in her mouth.

He traced on his window the flashing light of Shenton Way.

She chewed the strips of Stilton in her mouth. She thought about leaving the bowl out, just in case, but then she shook her head at the stupidity. He was not a Stilton man; never was, and never would be. When they went into the cheese store on Third for the first time she’d told him it was a blue cheese. He’d looked at it, then said with a joke in his voice, Yet another thing in America pretending to be white, I see. And then an instant, and then he’d grimaced so she couldn’t miss it. But because he never said it again, she pretended he never had.

He turned away from the window. She swallowed and raked another handful.

The letter was still in the drawer. He pushed the drawer slowly, watching the letter disappear centimeter by centimeter. And then he pulled the drawer again.

The noises were crowding her. The cheese felt ganky in her mouth, and it gummed her back teeth. She turned and spit the mouthful onto the floor, and then instantly worried about a stain. She felt like a fraud for acting out.

He took the letter. As he looked at the handwriting on the envelope, dominoes in mid-fall from left to right, a sound thumped in the apartment somewhere. He wondered if it was she, and then he shrugged. Nonchalantly. Suddenly feeling a little foolish, he turned the envelope over and teased out the sheets of paper. They smelled of lavender two seasons old. This time I’m arriving on the fifteenth at five in the afternoon. You better be holding a bottle of Baileys when I see you. She would have written “15th” and “5 pm”, except he’d asked her once whether she was as sloppy when she taught. She’d said the word ‘sloppy’ was sloppy, and then she’d put on her best teenager’s voice and said, “What”. She never said it as a question, only as challenge spiked with playfulness. Then she’d tell him her students loved her impressions. He usually refrained from replying. Or he rolled his eyes and then pulled her close.

As she threw the sodden tissues away she thought about going home. The flight had been booked, but she could negotiate an earlier date. She knew she could, even if the fine print said otherwise. She wanted to see her students again. She would go to the cheese store and pay a normal price for her Stiltons again, she would even look forward to apartment-hunting, to filling out forms. But then a thought barged into her head and lodged itself: she wondered if he would follow her.

He stared at the handwriting until the flowing lines smudged. Suddenly, a voice in his head said, This was the type of woman Mrs. X was: on envelopes she wrote in black block letters, but in letters she was curls and lavender scents. It was a good line. He filed it away. He had become Christopher Fucking Robison.

She stood up and took the big bowl of cheese. She cradled it in one arm as she pulled the refrigerator door, and then suddenly she paused. The glass rim curved against the flatness of her stomach. After a moment, she used a foot to keep the door open, and then took the bowl by its rim with her free hand. After she slid it into the refrigerator, she stepped into the hallway to look at him again. He was still smiling. Of course. She needed to kiss the bottle again.

She had been holding a bottle of Baileys. He had been holding a bottle of Baileys. You can’t. Get drunk. On That Shit, was what she said, every time. Tough Chick Rapping, she called it. She was high on the adrenaline of an eighteen-hour flight, her eyes shadowed and shining. He was high on the writing of a passage he secretly loved. They were adult children, basically, and after two bottles of Baileys they fucked like adults with the enthusiasm of children. And the carelessness. He heard her giggles as he put the letter back in the drawer. He shook his head, and felt tired and in need of food.

She took one step towards him, Baileys in hand. And then another. At some point she became aware that she was tiptoeing. On her ninth step the skin on her upper left arm twinged. She ignored it as she ignored all the other phantom pains.

He stared at it for a while, and then he took the bowl of moldy cheese out, and dumped it, cheese and bowl, into the trashcan. Then he scuffed his sole against the refrigerator, getting rid of something sticky.

She looked at him now, him with his smiling face. She pressed her lips against the acrylic shield, against that fourteen-dollar plastic smile, feeling a little morbid. My parents’ idea, he’d said, reddening. He reddened the same way whenever he told people who his parents were. Asian parents like to keep trophies, and they like their sons to keep trophies too. She’d said, grinning, In large print and in their living rooms no less, I see. Later, when he’d told her, It isn’t the right time, it had been his mother’s voice that she heard.

He sat on the chair in the kitchen, rubbing the soles of his feet together. She thought about punching his smile.

He thought of her butt on the downy cushion. She loved to sit in this chair stuffing her face with cheese. She made a face at him whenever he said that. He thought of that, and he thought of the Stilton in the trashcan. He thought of L’Ecole, and Starbucks, and Forever 21, and the East Village Cinema, and Dulce de Leche, and Kiehls’ Facial Fuel. Then he thought about Orchard Road, and char kway tiao, and durians and her revolted face, and malls connected by walkways, exhausted days and exceeded budgets, and rain thunderstorming outside on quilt blanket days. Then there was nothing left. Nothing except the sullen summer past, and the hours stretched between patience and deliberate ignorance, and everything else.

She was in his room now. She had to remind herself of that. It seemed too empty to be his room. She trailed a finger across his desk, and looked around the bare room again. Through the window she could see the traffic light on Shenton Way flashing, green, green, red. She hoisted herself up his desk, wobbled to adjust her butt, and then sat watching the flashes. Every change of the light made her feel a little less – made her feel a little less.

She’d gotten the abortion, and they had decided not to talk about it. Both of them had decided. So they filled the silence with sounds, but they couldn’t get rid of the other silence, the silence that bounced off the walls and settled on their shoulders, the silence of other people having fun, the silence of a ghost in the room with them. He heard it now too. There were more ghosts now. He could sense her, sometimes.

They had stood at that very street corner, beneath that traffic light. He’d brushed his fingers against hers while they walked home from the movie, she’d gradually slid her hand away, his face had set in rigid impassiveness. Then, under the traffic light, while they waited, she had finally shouted, after weeks and weeks of silence. The summer was ending and the flight was only two days away, and she could not bear the thought of going home with those words still in her. You don’t want to talk about it? You think I’m afraid to shout here? I’ll shout as loud as I want, so why don’t you walk away, huh? Are you staying so you can take notes? Where’s your fucking notebook, huh? Eight years I’ve never seen you without your notebook. Where is it, huh?

They were two adults shouting like children, flinging and hurling every stone they could scrape up. He’d done his share of the shouting, and more. You’re a twenty-nine year old teenager. I asked you if it wasn’t the right time, and you agreed. What did you want me to do?

Hurting. You’re a remainder-bin writer who underlines errors in other people’s books.

Pushing. Yeah. Tell me again, what are those files you’re hiding away in that folder in your laptop? Yeah, I thought so. At least I took a chance once.

Is that why you went to Paolini’s book signing? Is that why you told him about the “continuity mistake”? A nineteen year-old and he doesn’t even know you exist. Sucks, doesn’t it?

Stilton cheese? Stilton. Cheese? Stilton cheese and Baileys? Who does that? That’s fucked up, you know that? And you think wearing Donna Karen with J-Crew makes you eclectic? Interesting? It doesn’t. You’re still a high-school teacher, teaching high-school kids and going nowhere. And that’s not going to change no matter how hip and cool you try to make yourself.

Your parents made you hang up that picture. Yeah, right.

Tell me why all your previous boyfriends were also bananas. Go on. Tell me.

What about you? “Yet another thing in American pretending to be white”? Passive-aggressive, much? You think I haven’t seen the way you look at Singaporean women? You think I don’t know why you like coming to America so much? You’re fucked up, that’s what you are. What, not blaming this on your parents as well?

You can’t even keep to a hundred dollar budget. What makes you think you can deal with a baby?

I can’t deal with a baby? Please. You’re the one with the commitment problem. Is your second book coming, huh? Ever? Guess not, huh. What do you do with your days? Sit around and read those ‘promising debut’ reviews?

Fuck you.

Fuck. You.


And then later, when the anger had burned itself out:

I’m tired of being around you. You make me feel like I need to be saying something, even when I am.

You smiled at me once like it meant something. But then I saw you smile the same way at your students, at the flight staff, even at the fucking 7-11 cashier. What happened to us? You and me?


And yet later:

I don’t want to talk to you anymore.

I don’t, either. In fact I’d like nothing better if we never talked to each other ever again. That would be great. That would be heaven.

She’d gotten up, and started walking. He didn’t call her name.


The traffic light was blurring, but she kept looking at it, and she forced herself to think about the drive to the airport two days later.

He stayed in the chair, and he thought about the silence in the car, and the silence in the two days prior. Silence, silence, silence. And then right after the roar of metal crunching, as they were spinning and floating across tarmac, a silence as if light itself had been sucked out of existence. They were voiceless.

And then it was over.

I’m sorry. We did everything that we could.

Something was gripping her chest. She had trouble breathing, and then the room swirled around her for a moment. She felt a sharp pain around her shoulders, and then – nothing. Nothing. There was only the pull of exhaustion left. And even that felt – silly, after a while. She pushed herself off the desk slowly, and left the room. The couch in the living room caught her eye, so she went to it, and sank into its left side. Her side.

He felt stretched. Thinking about it always made him feel that way, in the end. He’d lost count of how many times he’d thought about it, just to feel the sharpness of letting go, and the blunted weariness afterwards. Then he felt self-conscious, again. It was the same feeling he had felt when her father had hugged him. The television. He needed noise.

The couch felt soft and yielding at the back of her neck. She thought about him, about his inky hair and eyes, about the cremation, about the half of the ashes given to her two days ago. She thought about going home, and then she wondered if he was somewhere in the room, somehow, watching her. She did not think it was entirely impossible. Sometimes she saw him, in the second after she turned, through the crack of a door swinging shut, in the moments when dream and waking merged, as a shadow if she stared until the world turned purple. And then there were the times she was sure he was there, somehow, in the chair, at his desk, only invisible to her.

The right side of the couch received him like forgiveness. He let the seconds of a minute drift by, less silent, more quiet. Then he took the remote and pressed the red power button. Gunshots and sirens. The picture came on, a movie they’d seen six thousand times. He said it was fun. She called it the cockroach of movies. He could sense her, again. Sometimes it felt like if he had the right word she would be there when he turned.

“Tell me what I need to do,” she said, softly. She did not know if they were the right words, but it felt good to know that those words were in the air, that they might fold into the other noises and linger in her absence. Until he heard them, somehow, wherever he was. Then maybe there would be a sign.

The television suddenly blipped “what I”, and then the gunshots resumed, but he was still tense. A clear sign, a clear sign was all he asked, every day. But nothing else happened. He shook his head and sank into the couch again, half-snorting at his own credulity. And then he said, “Please”. And then – “I’m sorry.” Just in case.

She shifted to a lying position, head resting on the left arm of the couch, legs lopped over the right arm. She was tired, and sometimes when she was tired enough the right arm felt like his thighs.

He closed his eyes and let the television’s blare wash over him in restful waves. His hand crept to the left side of the couch, and stayed there.

Her eyes closed.

His mind wandered.


And soon they were dreaming of hearing each other again.