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  "Put your suit jacket on, Paul. And go to your meeting.

  And tomorrow, instead of coffee, you'd better drink water

  until you can be less clumsy." I didn't say it lightly. I wasn't teasing.

  I was testing.

  He closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them, I

  saw relief and something else. A little shame. A little

  excitement. I felt the sting and swirl of it, too, but I lifted

  my chin and tried not to show it.

  "Now," I said, "go to your meeting."

  He put on his suit jacket and left.

  There was nothing overtly sexual about what had

  happened. I didn't want to fuck my boss. Until today I

  wouldn't have believed he wanted to fuck me, either,

  beyond the fact that most men would like to fuck most

  beyond the fact that most men would like to fuck most

  women. Yet something had passed between us, something

  charged and tense and arousing.

  Alone in Paul's office I had to bend and put my hands on

  his desk, my head down so I could catch my breath. I'd

  fainted twice in my life, and this didn't feel like that, the

  gray-red haze taking over my vision, the ringing in my ears.

  This light-headedness was more like the breathless rush

  that comes just before orgasm, when every muscle

  clenches. When the body takes over and nothing the mind

  can do wil stop the inevitable.

  It was synchronicity again, or maybe serendipity. Like

  when you've never heard a word before and suddenly you

  see it in every book you read, or how you've been craving

  ice cream and the ice-cream truck rounds the corner just

  before you go inside. Three men, similar but different. I

  might not have noticed a few months ago, but now it was

  al I could see. The notes had done that. Opened my eyes

  to that need. Theirs and mine, too.

  Last night, learning about Eric had rocked my world. This

  morning, discovering I was about to lose my lists had done

  it again. But now, just now, with Paul, I'd learned

  something so basic it had been with me al along. Only like

  something so basic it had been with me al along. Only like

  Dorothy with the Scarecrow, Tin Woodsman and

  Cowardly Lion, I simply hadn't seen it. I thought of lists

  and notes and what they meant to me. And what I wanted.

  And I knew what I had to do.

  "Paige." Miriam gave me a broad, crimson-lipped grin. "So nice to see you. What can I do for you today? A gift for

  someone?"

  "No. Today I came in for myself."

  I looked to the shelf where the boxes of ink, pens and

  papers had been, but they were gone. Miriam came

  around the counter and saw me looking. She tugged gently

  on my sleeve.

  "In the back. Come with me." She'd set the boxes on an

  eye-level shelf, each displayed with its lid open to show off

  the papers inside. "Not so many people wil see these

  back here, but if they take the time to look, I believe they

  wil be unable to resist."

  I already knew the one I wanted. Red lacquer with blue

  and purple accents. The paper inside bore the watermark

  and purple accents. The paper inside bore the watermark

  of a dragonfly, and there was enough to last a number of

  weeks even if I wrote a letter on it every day. The brush-

  and-ink set interested me less. I didn't intend to write in

  caligraphy.

  "This one." I closed the lid and slid the smal wooden clasp through the loop of ribbon to keep it shut. I turned to

  Miriam and stopped at the look on her face. "What?"

  "I knew you would find something to write on that paper,

  that's al." She was already leaving the room and gestured

  over her shoulder for me to folow.

  The box was heavier than it looked because of the marble

  stamper, also featuring a dragonfly, and the porcelain

  container of ink paste inside. Heavier, too, because of

  what I meant to do with the contents. The wood slipped

  against my fingers as I carried it to the cash register. I

  didn't want to let it go long enough for Miriam to ring it up

  and put it in a Speckled Toad bag, but I did.

  I was sweating a little, my stomach and throat buzzing with

  anticipation. Colors seemed a bit too bright and sounds

  too loud. I was already thinking of a quiet room and

  candlelight, and the scritch-scratch of a pen on the paper.

  I already knew what I was going to write.

  Miriam rang up my purchase and wrapped the satin box

  liberaly in tissue paper, then slid it into a bag. She peered

  at me over her half glasses, her mouth pursed, and tapped

  the countertop with her crimson nails. "You need

  something else."

  I was already spending too much. "I don't think so."

  Miriam ignored me and turned to the glass-topped display

  case next to the counter. She leaned over to look at the

  Cross and Mont Blanc pens inside, each snuggled in its

  own cradle of velvet. She ran her finger over the glass,

  drawing my attention to each of the pens I'd lusted over

  since discovering her shop. There was a Starwalker

  rolerbal pen in black and one in blue. There was a

  Meisterstuck Classique Platinum rolerbal in classic black

  with silver accents. She even had one of the special

  limited-edition Marlene Dietrich pens I'd seen online that

  cost the earth.

  "Mont Blanc doesn't cal them pens, you know," she said

  in the reverent voice of an archeologist unearthing

  something precious. She didn't look at me as she unlocked

  the back of the case and ran her fingertips over the velvet.

  the back of the case and ran her fingertips over the velvet.

  "They're referred to as writing instruments."

  Her fingers closed on one, a slim black piece with the

  signature six-pointed star in the cap. She drew it out and

  laid it flat on her palm the way the jeweler had done with

  the diamond ring Austin had bought me. The pen in

  Miriam's palm wasn't quite as expensive as that ring, which

  I stil had locked away in my jewelry box…but it wasn't

  much less, either.

  I itched to take it, but shoved my hands in my pockets

  instead. "Yes, I know. I've been to their Web site."

  Now her gaze, cool and amused, flicked to me. "I'm sure

  you have. You look at these pens every time you come in,

  Paige."

  "They're beautiful pens."

  Miriam puled out a smal square of velvet and laid the pen

  —the writing instrument—on it. Then she folded her hands

  and tilted her head to look at me over her glasses again.

  "Let me ask you something, my dear. Would a plastic

  surgeon operate on someone's face with a rusty butter

  knife?"

  knife?"

  "I sure hope not." I grimaced.

  Miriam smiled indulgently. "Would an artist try to paint a

  masterpiece with a box of watercolors from the dolar

  store?"

  "If that's al the artist had, why not?"

  "My point is, my dear, that in order to create real, true

  things of beauty, a person needs the right tools." She

  waved a hand over the Mont Blanc.