Domestic Violets by Matthew Norman

me feel like I need to sit down.
    “Tom . . . seriously, it’s fantastic.”
    “Really?” I suddenly wish I had another cigarette. “You think so?”
    “There’s so much there. Like that scene near the end when Danny gets to Hollywood. That’s so sad. He spends the whole novel trying to get there, but when he finally does, he realizes he has no idea where he’s going. And so he just runs out of gas. That was so . . . I don’t know, poignant. It reminded me of your dad’s writing—when he was younger. Remember how I told you that your dad knows he’s hot? Well, he knows he’s a great writer, too, and he kinda writes like it. I think that’s why I didn’t like his last novel. But you’re writing like you’re trying to prove it. That’s how he used to write. I was actually telling Todd—” She stops here, self-conscious suddenly. Katie and I have developed this unspoken rule that somehow prohibits us from making direct reference to either Todd or Anna. “I was telling Todd that, about your dad.”
    “Todd’s welcome to read it, you know.”
    “Right. Maybe if it ever gets made into an Xbox game.”
    I want her to keep talking. I want her to tell me more of the things she liked and to further marginalize Todd, but she doesn’t. Instead, she looks thoughtfully—a little sadly—over the roof of our building at the top of the Washington Monument about a mile way. I allow myself a glance at the lovely plunge of skin ranging from her earlobe to her collarbone. There’s a line in one of my dad’s novels about the most beautiful parts of the female anatomy being the ones that are the most innocent—the ones that have never been scandalized by nudity.
    “So the kid in the book?” she says. “Danny. He’s you , right?”
    “I don’t know. No, probably not. I don’t think so. Just some imaginary kid in a book.”
    I look down at the street, and I see Danny, the kid I made up, standing at a crosswalk. I’m not crazy, I know it’s not actually him and that he doesn’t exist. But I’ve spent a lot of time with him over the last five years, and so I see him sometimes, walking around town in his sweatshirt and sneakers. He never seems quite sure where he’s going.
    “Well, he’s gonna be famous soon. And so are you. You’re gonna publish your book and leave me all alone in this place with Gregory.”
    “Greg,” I say, correcting her, and for a moment, I allow myself to believe what she’s just said. It’s an easy thing to do, because, aside from myself, she’s the only person in the world who’s read the book. Not my wife. Not my mother, my famous father, or my famous father’s famous literary agent. Just this beautiful smoking girl from work in her corduroy jacket.

Chapter 7
    W hen I finally do make it to Doug’s office, it’s after six, and I find him hunched over a glossy proof of an ad that I wrote last week. It’s a branding piece for a popular business journal, and it used to be a pretty cool ad. After going through Greg’s tractor beam of sucking, though, it’s now a typical, buzzword-laden hunk of corporate communications turd.
    He looks up at me, weary and gray. Doug is twenty years older than I am, and it shows, particularly this month. Since the bottom fell out of the economy, everyone in charge here looks like they need to go to the hospital. There’s a little TV on his bookshelf with the volume down low, and everyone on MSNBC is somewhere between panic and ritualistic suicide. The bold headline beneath the talking heads reads, W ORSE B EFORE B ETTER ?
    “Rough day?” I ask.
    He sighs, capping his red pen and letting it fall on his desk. “Apparently the roughest since the Great Depression.”
    “Oh, well that wasn’t so bad.” I fall down onto Doug’s old leather couch. It’s one of those worn and tattered pieces of furniture that can remind you quickly of how tired you are. “It’s all good,” I say. “When Obama wins, he’ll save us.”
    “Yeah, well,