Vanishing and Other Stories by Deborah Willis

home, squinting through the rain. He stays far behind her, and keeps his lights off. He doesn’t mean any harm. He only wants to watch her step out of her car, shut her door, toss thecar keys into her purse. He wants to watch her unlock the door to her building and disappear inside. Then he likes to imagine her in the elevator, and inside her apartment. Washing the makeup off her face, climbing into a dark bed, sleeping well.
    He has trouble sleeping. When he arrives home, he is often up for an hour, sometimes two. He sits in the dark and watches the aquarium. The convict tang, with its silver body and black bars, skims the rock for food. And the nocturnal flamefish is always up. Its red body is easy to see even in the dark. It is a slow, methodical swimmer. Following its cautious movement is the only thing that eases Tom into sleep. He wakes most mornings on the couch, in front of the aquarium. His body jerks as though he’s emerging from a dream, the kind where he is continuously, endlessly sinking.
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    THEY SIT OUTSIDE and listen to rain hit the Dumpster.
    â€œWhat do you do in your other life?” he asks. “When you’re not at work?”
    â€œI try to get some sleep. I clean when I have to. I cook.”
    He imagines she eats her meals the way he takes his: alone, in front of a flickering television. “I’m not much of a cook. It’s depressing to eat alone.”
    â€œMy father used to run a restaurant in Grande Prairie, so I’m happy in the kitchen.”
    â€œGrande Prairie? I imagined somewhere more exotic.”
    â€œTrust me, Grande Prairie is exotic.” She laughs. “My parents wanted me to take over the restaurant and I wanted to be a famousmagician. You can imagine how that went over.” She rolls him a cigarette of loose tobacco that gets stuck in his teeth—“How’s that for exotic?” she asks—and shuffles her cards.
    â€œLet’s start over,” he says. “Let’s get married.”
    â€œYou’re just like my ex-husband. Out of nowhere, Paul would say something hilarious.”
    â€œWhat happened to this husband? Did he die?”
    â€œIf only.”
    â€œAt least tell me your name.”
    â€œI’ve never liked it. My parents heard it on TV and it sounded perfectly North American to them.”
    â€œIt’s Lucy, isn’t it? They named you after Lucille Ball?”
    â€œThere are ways you could find out.” She drops the end of her cigarette to the cement. “Ask any of my co-workers, for example.”
    â€œLet’s get out of here. I mean it. We could take your show on the road. I’d make a good assistant.”
    â€œNo, you wouldn’t. You’re too morose.”
    â€œYou said it seems like we’ve known each other for decades. I just want you to tell me your real name.”
    She smiles, closes her eyes, and massages her neck. Her body leans, slightly, in his direction. She is so close to him that he could reach out and touch her hair. She has forgotten herself for a second, forgotten her desire for distance and privacy. He could wait for this to pass—and it will, quickly. She’ll look at her watch and walk away. He knows this because he too knows solitude. He knows its pleasure and its power. He knows it is a home you can occupy, a place where you can watch your pains shimmer around you like a school of fish. It’s also a habit, and he knows how entrenched and addictive it becomes. She might hate him if hepulls her out of its dark waters. It would hurt at first. And maybe always.
    Still, he reaches out and takes her hand. She lets him hold it for a second, maybe two. Then she slips it from his and checks her watch. “Look at that.” She stands to leave. “Time’s up.”
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    HE LEARNS TO RECOGNIZE the ones who play for money and the ones who play to find God. The first play to win, and they stop once they do. They