I love the Star Trek franchise. Love. When I want to relax and be entertained, I watch the original episodes (you remember: when William Shatner was hot). The original films are hilarious, due to the time period in which they’re made and the crew’s overwhelming affinity for getting fat and old. The TV show and original films are different animals, but I love them both. Same can be said for the newly realized JJ Abrams vision.

The first Abrams film came out in 2009 and featured a revamped, youthful Enterprise crew. Not only did I find the casting to be impeccable (Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto are the perfect Kirk and Spock), but the movie itself was one thrill after another, with comic quips to keep the tension at least somewhat lessened. However, much like Into Darkness, I watched the first modern Star Trek curled in a little ball. Abrams knows suspense, man; no joke!

When I saw the first trailer for Star Trek: Into Darkness, I was concerned, because the movie looked so serious! How could Star Trek be so serious?

I wanted to see the movie no matter what. I had to see it, because I knew Benedict Cumberbatch played the villain. Ever since my introduction to BBC’s Sherlock, I’ve been a self-admitted “Cumberbitch” (or member of the “Cumber-Collective;” the name has been changing ever since Ben revealed that calling ourselves “bitches” sets feminism back a few decades). Regardless of what we Cumber-fans call ourselves, I couldn’t wait to see him play a bad guy—and a super bad guy at that. The skinny Brit went up two suit sizes due to an extensive work out regiment and eating “like a foie gras goose,” as he put it. Sexy. Mmmmmm … What was I talking about? Oh, yeah, the MOVIE.

Although the trailers do try to make Into Darkness something serious, it really isn’t. I laughed just as hard, if not more so, in Abram’s Star Trek, part deux. The actors nailed their roles. I must apologize to the original Star Trek cast, but you’ve been replaced by the modern cast—because they, each and every one of them, are perfect, especially the leading men, but also background character Scotty in particular (Simon Pegg), who was a repeated source of comic relief.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve heard that Cumberbatch does actually play Khan (it’s been rumored for, like, a year). He is one creepy dude, and good old Benny has now joined the ranks of Javier Bardem: versatile, talented men who can play heroes, yes, but their mastery is in evil.

The fight scenes: stupendous. Action shots: wonderful. Jake and I often complain about action films moving too fast. I hate when you can’t tell who’s punching who or who’s shooting at what. Abrams did a good job of keeping everything clear. When Khan blows up a bunch of Klingons, you know. When Spock tosses guys onto their backs in crazy Vulcan flip-moves, you know. However, the film isn’t only action, action, action.

The film has feelings. The film has emotion. The film has character development, and at times, you’re not even sure who you’re rooting for. I love the actors in this movie. Love them. And although sitting in fetal position for two hours isn’t exactly comfortable, my reaction speaks to the directing and impressive cinematography. Into Darkness is a well-made film, and if there was an Oscar for “Best Collective Effort by Cast and Crew,” I’d say this movie should win.

I don’t often suggest people spend inordinate amounts of cash, but Into Darkness is one for the big screen. Pony up the dough and go see it in a theater, would you? You can thank me later.

“Excuse me. I have to go kill a bunch of people.”

Rough Hands: A Different Perspective

Standing so close to her in the elevator, he smelled her perfume—spicy, like cinnamon and autumn in London. Her dark eyes shook as she looked up at him. She didn’t want to be kissed; he kissed her anyway. He felt her hesitation—her lips limp like cold, raw meat. Then, her lips tightened, willing him to pull away, leave her be.

When she moaned, he was surprised. He thought she might hurt him, shove him away, under the duress of his sexual attack. Instead, she made a noise like a wild beast, and her hands latched onto the back of his head. Her mouth opened; her tongue touched his. He was shocked by her hunger, and in response, his hands found her ribs, her hips, and finally, her thighs. He lifted her, pressed her against the wall. He pushed his pelvis against her, and his violent lust would have hurt a normal woman. But Helena was not a normal woman; she was immortal. Part of what he loved about her kind: their strength and the way, for once in his life, he felt weak in someone’s embrace.

Her fingers pulled hard on his hair, and he remembered the look on her face the night before when he caught her touching him in his office. She was so embarrassed, she ran from the room. He terrified her, he knew, but he didn’t know why. Perhaps that was part of his game, part of the reason he trapped her in an elevator. He had to know: why would a vampire be scared of a human?

She took charge and shoved him away. He watched her land like a cat on the elevator floor, and her iron-like fists exploded against his chest. He fell against the opposite wall of the elevator, barely able to contain himself. He wanted to tear her clothes off, bang like mad on the elevator floor. He knew it was the danger he craved. He dated vampires because at any moment, he could end up dead, and in a life so filled with boredom, Damian found the threat intoxicating. He longed for it, so he wasn’t afraid when she pinned his wrists to the wall—wasn’t afraid when she kissed him and he felt her fangs clash against his front teeth.

Her kissing slowed. She still held him trapped, but he felt as though her mind wandered. He felt as though she traveled far from him, away from the elevator and their connected mouths. He wanted to speak to her, say her name and call her back, but then, she returned. She tore at his tie and popped a button on his dress shirt in an effort to press her mouth against his bare chest.

He’d been there before. He knew he would soon feel her teeth in his flesh, feel his own warm blood flowing into her cold mouth. He lived for the pain; he was willing to die for it. He touched her shoulders, pulling her closer, but then, she pulled away. She stepped away from him, out of breath, eyes wide.

“Where did you go?” he asked.

He watched her run fingers through her hair. She adjusted her dress and looked nowhere near him.

“Helena,” he said.

Then, the elevator moved, but Damian stood still. She left him there, alone, with a painful erection and an even worse feeling in his chest. Didn’t she understand? He just wanted to be one of them.

The fact is I’ve been looking for some challenge in my life. I love writing novels and short stories; you know that. However, I usually feel as though I’m not doing “enough.” I’m not working toward the greater good.

I like to think that getting one of my novels published would change this feeling. For instance, one of my dear, dear friends just finished reading my recently completed novel rough draft, Damned if They Don’t. This dear friend is agnostic, and my novel made her say, “Maybe I could come to church with you some time just so I can understand what this God stuff is all about.” If that’s not working toward the greater good, I don’t know what is.

Despite this amazing conversation, I wanted more. I saw myself as a teacher someday, which is why I spoke to my professors about earning a Master’s degree. Until yesterday, I saw myself teaching at the college level. I saw myself inspiring youth to read, write, and use their words to exorcise emotional demons. All of this and more—until yesterday.

It’s no one’s fault, and I’m thankful the professors I met with yesterday said the precise things I needed to hear. For instance, “Teachers rarely have time to write.” Or, “I’ve given up on writing a novel.” Or finally, worst of all: “Don’t try to be a good teacher and a good writer.”

Certainly, I felt distraught yesterday. I feel distraught today, because I thought for sure I would be applying to ASU for my Master’s next year. I thought I would be a TA and then, a teacher. Now, I realize these were silly aspirations. Not silly because they were unrealistic; silly because I should have known—being a Master’s student, being a teacher, would ruin me as a writer.

It’s sad, tragic, to hear that teachers—highly talented professors—no longer write. It’s sad they no longer publish, because there just isn’t enough time to take care of personal projects when they have over a hundred students to deal with. However, my professors spoke the truth yesterday, no question. They were brutally honest with me. One teacher who I highly respect even said, “I worry about people like you becoming teachers. I worry you’ll stop writing, and writing is what you’re made to do.”

I’m saying no to graduate school. I’m saying no to becoming a college professor. I’m lost, for now, seeking a sign. However, the same friend who now wants to go to church with me said something interesting at our last happy hour. When I explained my frustrations over my current career situation, she said, “You’re in a waiting room, and a door will open soon.” Here’s hoping I step through.

But then, I came to a realization: it’s no wonder my high school self hated Gatsby; there was no way my high school self understood the book at all.

The Great Gatsby is about living in the past—dreaming about the past. The novel is about regret and trying to regain old glories, old feelings. Gatsby is about gluttony, drunkenness, and the overwhelming appeal of wealth … and the emptiness wealth brings to relationships and life. As a teenager at Perrysburg High School, I had no past to dream about. I had no old glories to re-attain. I had yet to attend my first fancy drunk-fest. I knew nothing about life, nothing at all, outside the context of my GPA and college applications.

Now thirty, I recognize the gluttonous party scenes, because I’ve lived them. I recognize the empty speak, practically comical in its vapidity. I recognize Gatsby’s longing for things past and his futile grasping for love lost, never again to be regained. At thirty, I get it, which is why Gatsby is now one of my favorite books.

In a similar vein, I reread The Awakening this week—another blast from the past and another book I could not possibly have appreciated as a spoiled honor student. The Awakening is about a wife and mother who feels trapped in her existence. She escapes the confines of duty and runs free, even falling in love with another man. In the end (spoiler alert), she realizes there will always be another man, another dream unfulfilled. She will never be satisfied, so she kills herself.

Question: why are kids reading these books in high school? You know me. You know I’m thoroughly against censorship of any kind. However, I’m not talking about censorship. I don’t think books like Gatsby and The Awakening should be removed from high school curriculum because of their questionable content. I think they should be removed because high school students have absolutely no chance of relating to or understanding what authors like Fitzgerald and Chopin are trying to say.

I was a nerd in high school—AP everything, especially English—yet even for me, Gatsby was pointless, because at the age of eighteen, I had yet to truly live. I had no life experiences that I could relate to poor Jay Gatsby. I had no idea why sad Edna Pontillier would drown herself at the end of The Awakening. I’m not saying that, at thirty, I’m suicidal; however, I am saying that now, I understand Gatsby. I understand Edna. I have lived. I have failed. I have felt horrible heartbreak, and I have based empty relationships on alcohol. I am an adult; these books have become more than homework assignments—they have become masterpieces.

Like I said, I’m against censorship, but I think the American education system should seriously reevaluate what kids are reading. I know they’re supposed to read “the classics,” but the classics (as evidenced by Gatsby) can easily be despised when youth have an inability to relate. There are so many amazing, spectacular books written about high school. There are books like The Sledding Hill and The Perks of Being a Wallflower—books high school kids could read, love, and understand. Arguably, in the hands of young students, books like Gatsby and The Awakening are wasted.

If not for the movie remake, I never would have picked Gatsby up again. Imagine what I would have missed because of my stupid high school self. I suggest you take a look back at some of the books you “hated” in high school. You’ll be surprised at the affect they have on you, now that you have lived.

“The Fabulous One.”

It took a while for me to really meet Amy Donohue. I knew her because she was famous … to me, at least. She is a recurring speaker at Ignite Phoenix and Ignite Phoenix After Hours. She has classic, bad-girl movie star style, and she’s a hot chick. When I finally met her face-to-face, we realized we “knew” each other via Twitter and I realized I had to know more about her. Amy is about to embark on an amazing road trip, so I caught her just in time for an interview.

In April of 2011, she donated her right kidney to a friend’s mom. She met the friend through Twitter, so social media played a big part in the process. Now, Amy is making a documentary about her experience and the experiences of other kidney transplant patients and donors. From foodie, comedian, and socialite, Amy has now become a hero; read on and get to know the lovely, brave Ms. Donahue.

An H and Five Ws with Amy Donohue,

Comedian and Kidney Donor

Once upon a time, you were a humble comedian and Phoenix foodie. How on earth did you become a heroic kidney donor?!

It honestly happened because of the relationships I’ve built on Twitter. I wouldn’t have responded to a random tweet. A woman (Kirti) I had originally met on Twitter sent out a tweet about how her mother was suffering from kidney failure.  I had already been tweeting with Kirti, and we got together with other friends for dinner several months before. I was getting into the tub, saw the tweet, and responded. Crazy, right?

Who is your biggest inspiration?

My mother. She divorced my father when I was just eight. I saw her go through a lot of hard times, financially and emotionally. Being the oldest and seeing it all firsthand made me the person I am today.

What made you decide to make a documentary about your experience as a donor?

I was on my way to a gig last July and picked up a couple comics. On the ride over, I told them I was thinking about making a documentary. I really wanted to meet all these donors who I had built relationships with over the past two years. What better way than a road trip? Wait. Let’s film it!!! There you go: Social Media Stole My Kidney.

Where do you feel most inspired?

Believe it or not, I am an introvert and my inspiration comes when I am alone. Whether I am walking Dexter or just sitting on the couch, that’s where my ideas come from. Oh, and some of my best comedy jokes were written in the bathroom.

Amy with Kirti’s mom.

When have you been most afraid? (I’d say “pre-op” is a fair answer …)

Honestly, I wasn’t afraid going into surgery. In fact, I didn’t have much fear at all, except for when I lost my job. I’ve been most afraid when, with my business, money isn’t coming in like I need. I think the biggest fear in my life at all times is financial. I’m slowly learning to let go of the worry and just work as hard as I can.

WHY is it so important to spread the word about kidney donation?

As of today, there are 118,095 people waiting for an organ. Of those, 96,086 need a kidney. My surgery took 90 minutes. I was out of the hospital within 48 hours of donating. Yes, there is ALWAYS the possibility of something going wrong during surgery. There are always risks. But you take a risk with your life every time you get behind the wheel, especially in Phoenix.

My life has changed drastically since donating. I look at everything differently. I have a greater appreciation for the good things, and I am not as concerned with the petty. I saved a life. I gave someone a better quality of life. Who wouldn’t want to do that???

(Learn more about Amy and her quest to travel the country at http://fabamy.wordpress.com/blog/. Follow her on Twitter at https://twitter.com/TheFabulousOne. See her Ignite Phoenix presentation about the donation process at http://igniteshow.com/videos/ignite-phoenix-10-social-media-stole-my-kidney.)

The documentary …. more to come!

            The elevator stopped on the second floor of the vampire clinic, a medical space reserved in the Brooklyn borough for blood-suckers alone. The second floor was where they kept the plague patients, so Helena was not surprised to see his shiny shoes enter and face away from her.

            He said nothing, but she smelled his skin and felt the warmth of him, just like the first time they met, when she offered him a job and he whispered in her ear, “Are you to be my assistant, then?” She had avoided him ever since—at least in appearance.

            The elevator lurched to a stop, and Helena for once did look up in time to notice one of his manicured fingers on the red Emergency Stop button. She stood up straighter when he turned to face her, all black hair and burning blue eyes. Two steps later, he was inches from her face, both hands planted on the elevator walls at her sides.

            “What were you doing in my office last night?”

            She couldn’t—wouldn’t—touch him; anything to avoid feeling the warmth of a living man.

            “Styling my hair?” he asked.

            “It could use some gel.”

            He smiled at this but did not reveal the teeth she knew were straight and white. “How long have you been watching me?”

            Since you set foot in the clinic. Every day, she thought, via security cameras. Every night when you fall asleep at your desk or on some random couch. She said, “We’re never even in the same room.”

            “I caught you staring at me once in the emergency ward.”

            “It’s not every day we welcome a human into our midst. You looked odd surrounded by monsters who want to kill you.”

            “Is that what you want then?” He leaned in as if he might kiss her, but his parted lips merely brushed the side of her face. “Do you want to kill me, too?”

            Helena was lucky she did not have a heart that increased in pace. She did not have skin that blushed, so nothing could give her away, except perhaps the shortness of her breath. “I don’t want to kill you.” She fought to keep her voice steady. “Not until you find a cure for this damned disease that’s killing us.”

            He leaned back some, enabling her to see the way his blue eyes looked black beneath the overhead lights. “I suppose that’s all I’m good for. Once I’ve found the cure, I’m expendable.”

            “We didn’t bring you here to kill you.”

            She told the truth. Helena’s boss and maker, Vittorio, chose Englishman Damian Keller because of his Harvard degree and specialization in blood-based disease. She suspected Vittorio chose Damian for other reasons, as well. He was young—a science prodigy who, as a child, made grown men cower at his greatness. His face and hair were reminiscent of a Botticelli angel, and worst of all, he bore an uncomfortable resemblance to Elijah.

            “Why do you avoid me, Helena?” Again, he leaned toward her, this time pressing a kiss where her pale neck met collarbone.

            She closed her eyes, told herself to breathe, just breathe, which only made things worse when she smelled an earthy cologne mixed with the blood that pounded beneath his cheeks. “Why do you seek me out?”

            “I should think that would be obvious.”

            “Vittorio says you like vampire women. Have a fetish, do you? Or maybe a death wish.”

            “I’ve never been harmed by a vampire. Why should it happen now, in this elevator?”

            “Nothing is happening here in this elevator, Damian.” But as she said his name, she realized the word tasted sweet. She needed to get past him, get the elevator rolling again, but his arms kept her pinned. If she wanted him to move, she would have to touch him, and if she touched him …

            He touched her instead. She felt his hands on the sides of her ribcage, pulsing with heat. His warm forehead found hers. “I’m going to kiss you.”

            “You wouldn’t dare.”

            Breath escaped his lips in a chuckle, and she realized, with him standing so close, he very well could have been Elijah, born again into the body of this young doctor—ironic considering Elijah was nothing more than a farmhand outside London a century ago.

            He pressed his lips against her mouth. She wanted to bite his tender lower lip, just to get him to stop, but she feared the taste of his blood, having longed for it over the past three months. Helena had no choice but to accept his kiss, and as she opened her lips for him, he tasted like Elijah—black tea and smoke.

She tilted her head up and moaned. It was over a century since Helena felt a man’s touch, and here was a man whose body she could crush but who felt no fear in her presence. She could tell. Although his heart beat with the excitement of their embrace, Damian was not afraid. He trusted her, and she wondered if he was as naïve as other humans who dated vampires and ended up dead.

          His hands moved down her body, took hold of her thighs, and lifted her. The elevator wall was cold against her back, but her legs around Damian’s waist burned. She allowed herself to touch his black hair, messy like Elijah’s, but this was not like her intrusion from the night before. The night before, she found Damian sleeping and could not resist just a touch. Now, she took full advantage and dragged her fingers through thick black.

            In her mind, she smelled hay mixed with Damian’s blood. She closed her eyes and saw Elijah, shocked to find her, suspected dead, in the middle of his horse stable. She felt Elijah’s callused hands as he touched her face. He said he was married now. He said, Something is different about you.

            No longer afraid to touch the very living man who pressed her against the wall, she shoved him away and landed gracefully on her feet. She took hold of Damian’s wrists and captured him in a corner; then, she captured his mouth and stood on tip-toe until their teeth clashed.

            Elijah did not kiss her after her return from Venice. He kept saying he was married now, married to someone else. What happened to her in Venice? Who was the strange Italian man she traveled with? Yet the word stuck: married. Her love was married, so she killed him and left him in a bed of hay, covered in blood. The guilt set in later, which was why she punished herself, stayed alone for a hundred years.

            But she wasn’t alone. She was in a stopped elevator with a man she wanted to devour.

            He tried to free himself from her grasp. Surely, he wanted to hold her again, and she wanted his touch. She wanted his warmth. She wanted …

            She let go of his wrists and pulled the knot of his black tie. He stood watching, as if enamored by her black hair, violet eyes, and lips, dyed red from years of blood. She threw the tie to the ground and pulled open the top of his dress shirt, popping a button. When she leaned up to kiss his neck, her fangs distended. She would punish him—punish him for being married, for leaving her to be alone forever.

            Soft, smooth hands touched her bare shoulders and she realized she was not in an elevator with Elijah. Elijah’s hands were rough—farmer’s hands. Damian’s hands were soft, the hands of a scientist.

            Shocked at her own confusion, she fell backwards and caught herself on the elevator railing.

            “Where did you go?” Damian asked.

            Helena pushed the Emergency Stop button. The elevator moved, and she stepped off at the next floor.

            “Helena.”

            His voice made her glance back, and there he stood, Elijah, Damian, one and the same—a trap set by Vittorio, tired of her loneliness and hoping this young doctor could fill a space a hundred years old. She still tasted him on her lips as she walked, promising herself she would never again be alone with Damian Keller. Because the next time, he would end up dead.

Florida front yard. Yep.

I went to Longboat Key once when I was a kid—ten years old. I surely did not have the keen observational skills I do now. Now, when I set foot on Longboat, I could people-watch for hours, days, weeks. I’d love to, in fact, because five days of vacation was not enough.

My Aunt Susie—best buddy, maid of honor at my wedding, blood relative—called me months ago and said, “You’re coming to Florida with me. I’ll pay for half your plane ticket.” How could I say no? Last week, we were together for five glorious days of sunshine, booze, and island fun.

Longboat Key is a swanky little town on the Gulf Coast, population 6800. When you’re not seeing mansions, you’re seeing beach condos. And I mean literally, our condo was right on the freakin’ beach. We woke up every morning to blue water, green grass, and pink bougainvillea. We woke up smelling the sea—and my decaf coffee.

Usually, we took a bike ride first thing. We visited the old part of Longboat, where wild peacocks roam the streets. Then, it was to the beach, where the sun was hot but the water was cold. No matter. I still dove in … a couple times. I can’t not swim in the ocean when the ocean is right in front of me.

On the beach, I met Heidi. She’s famous. Everyone knows her. She’s this older lady (upper-sixties, if I had to guess) who still wears bikinis. She has bright, blond hair and over-tanned skin the color of milk chocolate. She walks the beach of Longboat every day at approximately 3 PM, and one day, I even had the honor of joining her for drinks.

At The Drift Inn.

Off the beach, Susie and I ate too much food and one night, drank too much beer. There’s this place near Longboat (in Bradenton) called The Drift Inn. The Drift Inn, like Heidi, is famous in our family, because it’s where my Papa Schwind used to buy liquor (and probably sneak a pint or two). It is the penultimate beach dive bar. You can even smoke INSIDE. When I walked in, some guy turned to me, said “What the <bleep>?” and asked if I was lost. It’s that kind of place.

Susie and I made friends quickly, as we often do, loud, obnoxious characters that we are. By the end of the night, we were practically “regulars.” I even connected with a mother-son pair who’d spent time in Belize on Ambergris Caye. They want to meet Jake and me there next time we go. I mean, if this is not dive bar behavior, what is?

My vacation to Longboat Key was not physically healthy. Almost all the skin on my face has been transformed to possibly pre-cancerous freckles. Due to my consumption of gluten and booze, I probably put on five pounds. My hair is a frizzy mess. Yet, emotionally, Longboat was just what I needed. I needed a week of doing absolutely nothing—worrying about nothing. Blessed, blessed beach town; I miss you already, but I’m glad to be home with my hubbie and my pups. Now, I just need to find a way to bring the beach lifestyle to Phoenix …

Item One: I suffer from social anxiety disorder. Drinking is a comfort thing. If I’m in an awkward situation with a) crowds, b) people I don’t know, or c) people with too much freakin’ energy, I tend to nurse a beer to make myself relax. I learned through my six weeks of sobriety that alcohol doesn’t really make a difference at all. I can suffer through just about any awkward social scenario, sans booze, by just breathing and being myself.

No alcohol was involved in the taking of this picture.

Item Three: Alcohol, although a health food in France, is not really good for me. Over the course of my six week dry spell, I slept better, felt better, and got a heck of a lot more work done. My head felt clearer; my writing grew by leaps and bounds. I became a (prepare yourself) morning person. Talk about an Easter miracle!

Item Four: I like non-alcoholic beer. Seriously. See, there was a family crisis over the course of Lent—the kind of crisis that makes you say, “Holy hell, I need a DRINK!” While I considered a cheat, I reached for O’Doul’s instead. I didn’t need the actual buzz; I needed the taste of beer, and the mere taste of beer took the edge off. St. Pauli Girl’s NA is the best, in case you’re in the market.

REJOICE!

Now, Lent is over. Easter came and went; Christ died for us and is risen. In celebration, like I said, I had a couple drinks Sunday and felt awful after the fact. I might start slow this month—some social drinking here or there. I’m going to stick to non-alcoholic beer when available (weird, I know). I’m going to be myself in all circumstances, plus or minus bourbon or whiskey. And I’m going to be aware of my idol worship, because I owe it all to Him and Lent was a nice reminder of all He has to offer and all I have to be truly thankful for.

“Disgustin,’” she said.

The Irish painters stood side-by-side and looked at what was once the inside of a man’s skull, now spattered on the wall.

Her partner, Stew, held half a gallon of green, poured into a paint tray with a roller at the ready. “Mate coulda done it in the bath. To be nice, yeah?” His brogue made him sound consistently drunk, and based on the purple rims beneath his brown eyes, he very well could have been. “Let’s give it a go then.”

He doused the roller in paint and went over the week-old stain.

“Oy.” She turned around and covered her mouth.

Instead of covering the blood, the paint made it spread in streaks like an alien sunset.

“That won’t do, will it?” Stew replaced the roller in the paint and set the tray on the flawless hardwood floor. “Gonna have to use brushes.”

“Several brushes,” she added.

He scratched his fuzzy chin, and the sound was like sandpaper on wood. “If you were gonna kill yourself, how would you do it?”

“Booze and pills.”

He seemed taken aback. “Not very exciting, is it?”

“I like booze and pills.” She glanced around the well-lit Upper East Side loft. Streaks of late afternoon sun made old dust dance past crown molding. She realized the apartment would have been nice, if not for the … well … “Do real estate agents divulge a death in an apartment to the next tenant?”

“What kinda coward commits suicide in his own apartment? I would jump out a plane and not open my chute. Maybe jump off the Empire State Buildin.’” Stew made a whistling noise, followed by the clap of his hands. “Splat! Front page news.”

“You wouldn’t really do such a thing.”

“Dunno. Can’t say for sure. You?”

She shrugged. “Never thought about it. Not really.”

“Sure ya have. Everyone has.”

“They have?”

“Dunno.” Stew shrugged.

The green paint on the wall was dry. The blood formed curly-cues like melted raspberry ice cream. “How we gonna cover this up?” She lifted her callused hand and pointed.

“I kinda like it. Very … Jackson Pollock. Let’s put a frame around it and get the hell outta here. I could use a pint. Plus, this place gives me the willies.”

“Go get your effin’ pint.”

“Heh?”

“You’re botherin’ me. Come back in an hour.”

“Gladly.” He leaned in and gave her a smooch on the forehead before stomping in heavy work boots toward the front hall and foyer of what had once been a rich man’s home.

Alone, she stared at the makeshift modern art.

It needed something—something personal.

After some deliberation, she dug for a can of gold spray paint among several bags of Stew’s equipment. She shook the can; the click-clack sound echoed like a gunshot in the empty room. Carefully, she added her own touch to the abstract canvas. She stepped back and admired her work: a smiley face with exes for eyes.