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like your mother."
    Whoa!
    I straightened up and a hot dash of coffee spattered my wrist.
    The vision was real!
    And I was lucky. The ugly words had escaped under my breath just after Tina turned the hairdryer back on. Just. I stumbled into the bedroom and ditched the clay cups. Prickly sweat beads stood up on my scalp.
    It was all real!
    There was no filter. There was simply the primal brainwork here, immediately spit forth like sewage before it could be transformed into something witty.
    I plucked a pack of Marlboro Lights off the bedside end table, stuck a smoke between my teeth, and absently patted my chest for a lighter. I was partly dressed, no shirt. My eyes did an erratic, bouncy search across the room and I made myself slow the glance down. On the bureau sat "the box" which Tina had conveniently forgotten to stow in the basement, and I snatched it down to dig through.
    It was her old retro Gothic stuff, safety pin earrings, studded wristlets, spiked ankle bands, and junk jewels. It was her childhood hope chest, sweet nostalgic reminders of the fashion she sported long before I introduced myself, showed her the comforts of the corporate world, romanced her, swept her off her feet, and made her Mrs. Joe Kagan. The skull and crossbones lighter was near the bottom and I drew it out to thumb the small roller. The flame blew out before I could light up and I cupped my palm against the current of the ceiling fan. I popped it to life and took a deep drag.
    "So," Tina said.
    I jerked at the sound and she didn't notice. She was on her way to the closet to switch blouses for the umpteenth time, and she twisted her straight, jet-black hair up into a temporary bun. She scanned the overstuffed hanger-rack, shook her head, and reached for the small bottle sitting next to her pile of beret hats on the back shelf. She turned, pursed her lips, sprayed a bit of perfume into the air, walked into it, and spoke as if the conversation from last night had never been interrupted by seven hours of sleep.
    "So, hon, if the kids play ball on the lawn tonight, it's your turn to kick 'em off, right?"
    It was her slickest game. If not fully gratified, Tina would relentlessly return to a subject until the answer brought full satisfaction.
    "We discussed this last night," I said. She blinked thick lashes.
    "Yes, but we did not conclude. They're always in our garden to use my flowering fig for first base. When I asked them to leave yesterday that older boy called me the 'C' word while his mother stood in her doorway across the street with a smirk on her face. It's not fair, and I think you should get involved."
    "Fuck your flowering fig," I said. "That woman across the street happens to be married to the biggest, meanest-looking motherfucker I've ever seen and I don't relish the thought of pissing him off."
    Tina's arms flew up to cross before her chest and my heart sank. Straight confrontation made for poor politics and the issue was tricky, especially since she had a good point. Our neighborhood was the farthest borough northeast of town that still claimed an urban zip code. And it was littered with children, mainly two tribes. The nine-year-olds were the wild street rats who kept the avenue swarming with the violence of their Nerf bow and arrows, rubber dart pistols, and Super Soakers. Still, the real problem was the twelve-year-olds, that cruel clan that was quick to make captains and choose up sides. Whether it was a quick round of roughhouse, dodge ball, or nine-inning baseball played with an aluminum youth bat and duct-taped tennis ball, they claimed any section of unfenced property as prized, personal domain. Real champs. They swore like sailors, fucking spastic, you suck!, argued like lawyers, and slid hard and often into Tina's flowering fig.
    "Stop playing the isolationist," she said. "I need your support in this because when I do it alone, I come off as the neighborhood witch." She bent to tug her black stockings and the smooth line of her