Jack stares at the white napkin in front of him on the counter. In a moment the image  blurs until it dissolves into the white diamond tile of the backsplash in Ruby's small kitchen. She's standing at the stove, and Jack hears the sizzle of ground beef in the cast iron frying pan. He smells onions, peppers, garlic. Ruby's singing along with the radio. “What's my line? I'm happy...”

The water splashes against stainless steel sides, filling the sink like a baptismal font.

“She looked great. She'd cut her hair short, really short – almost a man's cut, and she'd lost some weight. She seemed tired. Started telling me about her job. She'd been doing some volunteer work at the City Rescue Mission, too. Believe it or not, she was even thinking about going to seminary. She wasn't dating anyone, and she joked about her temporary self-imposed stint of celibacy since she still believed sex was good for body and soul.”

Martin places another square napkin on the counter in front of Jack, and sets the glass on top of it. Once again, Jack turns the napkin so it resembles a diamond.

Martin replaces the remainder of the limes in the wire basket without cutting them. “It's the train, Jack.” He glances at the clock on the wall, and then reaches up and turns off the television. “2131 straight games. Amazing accomplishment, huh, Jack?” Martin slips a CD into a BOSE player sitting next to the liquor bottles.

“Down the mystic avenue....”

Martin closes his eyes, concentrating on the lyrics.

“And all the girls walk by.”

The crinkles around Jack's eyes deepen as he frowns in thought. “But it wasn't all raw, raunchy hard-core shit. Sometimes our sex was – what'd she call it? – transformative.”

Martin wipes down the inside of the sink. “You a church-going man, Jack?”

The bartender grabs a glass from a dish rack on his left. “Sure, Jack.” He opens the bin to the right of the sink, fills the glass half-full of ice, pulls out the soda gun, and fights to speak above the noise of the sirens. “Gas or no gas?”

Jack shakes his head. “What? Oh, .... Tap is fine, thanks.”

Jack's words become his black and red bike, flying around in circles at impossible angles. He puts down the bottle, and wipes his sweaty brow with wet fingers.

Cal Ripken takes a lap around the stadium. The crowd stays on its feet, cheering. Jack rotates the napkin until it looks like a diamond. “We broke up cause Ruby couldn't take my drinking.”

The bartender wipes the martini glass with a white dish towel, slightly frayed at the edges. He reaches up and places the clean glass on a rack hanging just above his head.

“Mark had built a sauna out back from plans he found in an old copy of Mother Earth News” – I guess it was about 100 yards from the house, not too far from the pond – and he had started heating the rocks earlier in the evening. We stayed long enough to get drenched in sweat, but by the time we got back to the living room, the heat was gone from our bodies.

“I'm not much of a baseball fan. More into bike racing myself.” Jack sounds irritated as he continues. “I didn't know any one at the party except my friend, Terry. Not my usual crowd. Lots of arty-farty types and musicians. Ruby was in the kitchen, and Terry took me back to meet her. She was standing at the sink washing dishes wearing black tights, a white peasant blouse, a red skirt, and green cowboy boots. The perfect picture of Christmas. She'd tied some mistletoe in her hair, too.