Free Prime Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page A

even heard his voice. And who cared what he said in the interview. Deadlines melted, time evaporated, sound disappeared.
    I wore a pink Ultrasuede suit and white stockings to our wedding—just a few months later—in a fluorescent-chilled clerk’s office at City Hall. I could see nothing in my future but that handsome face. For months, his astonishing looks distracted me from what I decided was his astonishingly manipulative lifestyle. Eventually, as I got into the book behind his glossy cover, I found it was less a romance and more an autobiography. All about himself.
    Half-empty/half-full? Life with James, I soon decided, meant it was always half-empty, and my responsibility to make it full again. He wanted to change the world, except for the part behind our apartment door.
    His work? Valuable and worthwhile. My work? Fine aslong as I was home to make dinner. His long hours? Valuable and worthwhile. My long hours? Proof I only cared about my career. My hard-won job interview at Channel 3? A pitiful attempt to match his public success. My Sweet Baby James turned out to be just a baby. I grew up and he didn’t. Which is exactly what I told him.
    He told me I was married to my career, not to him. He wanted children; I wanted to wait. Which of us, he sneered, was the grown-up?
    As it turned out, I left behind the array of trendy appliances I’d purchased to prove my homemaking prowess. I kept my collection of Tina Turner cassettes, Gramma’s good china, my Betamax and my dedication to journalism. Every time I placed a new Emmy on my bookshelves, it was a shining reassurance I had made the right choice. Career. Success. Still, tucked into my emotional hope chest, I always thought I preserved the right to choose again. Now I wonder—was I wrong? Now I wonder—has for now turned into forever?
    What would happen, I find myself speculating, if I just glide into happy talk with this guy. What if I forget what happened to Brad, forget about Franklin back at the station, forget about wrinkle-free Cyndi from Cincinnati who’s no doubt packing her extensive hair-spray and eye-shadow collection in preparation for her foray into my job territory. Don’t let them banish me to the home for obsolete reporters. Get out while the getting’s good. While it’s still my decision.

Chapter Six
     
     
    J

ust as I’m considering whether a second marriage at my age means no bridesmaids, Josh brings me back to reality.
    The moment he begins to read, it’s my jaw that drops. If I hadn’t been so distracted by my theoretical future with a certain schoolteacher, I probably would have predicted it.
    “Master Bowser, you come in happy times…” Josh is saying.
    It’s Bowser and Bagot.
    My brain begins racing faster than my mouth can form the words, and I know I’m not finishing any sentences.
    Josh has turned his chair to face me, and his eyes are locked into mine. He nods intently, listening, as I spill out what I know: Brad’s collection of company files; the refinancing spams; the obscure quotes, including Bagot and Bowser; my search through Google and my experimental e-mails in reply.
    “And here’s what makes it even stranger.” I’m winding up now, hoping I’m making sense. “I checked the new e-mails I got back, and each of the spam addresses I sent a quote to sent me back another e-mail. With another quote.”
    “But it’s spam, isn’t it?” he asks, looking perplexed. “The whole essence of spam is that it’s random, nonspecific. Blasted out to everyone, like junk mail. Everyone gets the same thing.”
    I nod in agreement. “Absolutely. It doesn’t make sense.”
    We both pause. The room is quiet; the golden afternoon light filters through the walnut-rimmed windows, lighting the thick dark-green rug with a patch of color.
    “Let’s go back to the beginning,” I suggest. “I sent back the completed quotes as sort of…a lark, you know? I didn’t really think I’d get a reply.”
    “Right,” says