t beyond a low-grade throbbing, he
was OK.

"I have a very large opportunity in Boston right now. One that could really
change my life. Money, sure, but prestige and profile, too. A dream of an
opportunity. I need to attend one or two meetings, and then I can take a couple
days off. I'll get Fede to OK a first-class flight -- we get chits we can use to
upgrade to Virgin Upper; they've got hot tubs and massage therapists now. I'll
check into a spa -- they've got a bunch on Route 128 -- and get a massage every
morning and have a physiotherapist up to the room every night. I can't afford
that stuff here, but Fede'll spring for it if I go to Boston, let me expense it.
I'll be a good lad, I promise."

"I still think you're being an idiot. Why can't Fede go?"

"Because it's my deal."

"Why can't whoever you're meeting with come here?"

"That's complicated."

"Bullshit. I thought you wanted to talk about this?"

"I do. I just can't talk about that part."

"Why not? Are you afraid I'll blab? Christ, Art. Give me some credit. Who the
hell would I blab *to*, anyway?"

"Look, Linda, the deal itself is confidential -- a secret. A secret's only a
secret if you don't tell it to anyone, all right? So I'm not going to tell you.
It's not relevant to the discussion, anyway."

"Art. Art. Art. Art, you make it all sound so reasonable, and you can dress it
up with whatever words you want, but at the end of the day, we both know you're
full of shit on this. There's no *way* that doing this is better for you than
staying here in bed. If Fede's the problem, let me talk to him."

"Jesus, no!"

"Why not?"

"It's not appropriate, Linda. This is a work-related issue. It wouldn't be
professional. OK, I'll concede that flying and going to meeting is more
stressful than not flying and not going to meetings, but let's take it as a
given that I *really* need to go to Boston. Can't we agree on that, and then
discuss the ways that we can mitigate the risks associated with the trip?"

"Jesus, you're an idiot," she said, but she seemed to be on the verge of
smiling.

"But I'm *your* idiot, right?" Art said, hopefully.

"Sure, sure you are." She *did* smile then, and cuddle up to him on the sofa.
"They don't have fucking *hot tubs* in Virgin Upper, do they?"

"Yeah," Art said, kissing her earlobe. "They really do."

17.

Once the blood coursing from my shins slows and clots, I take an opportunity to
inspect the damage more closely. Th