"What's to become of us?" Connor tried to keep her tone light.

      "I don't know. What did Larry say?"

      "Larry died last week."

      It had been a huge shock to Connor, after eight years of relying on her astrologer's counsel. On the other hand, you didn't have to be psychic to know that a person who lived on beer was bound to die.

      As a child, Larry had played one of the little Siamese children in The King And I, supporting his family for the eleven-odd years the show ran on Broadway. To keep him tiny, his mother had fed him nothing but Minute Rice and tomatoes, so by the time he quit show business for astrology, Larry had developed a loathing for food. One day after years of subsisting on beer, he passed out in front of a client, who called an ambulance. In the emergency room, the intern was checking Larry's pulse, when he heard a gurgling sound, and put his hand gently on his patient's abdomen. Larry died instantly. With that slight pressure, his stomach had dissolved completely away.

      "I haven't left my apartment in a week," Wren said, changing the subject. "What's out there, manwise?"

      "I don't see anything I want any more," said Connor.

      "I knew it. The place is fished out."

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© 2004 Sarah Kernochan