Virginia's senses snapped to attention this bright morning and she let the dizzy realization that today could be her only chance at fulfilling a long sought-after dream seep into her senses, settle into her bones. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself at the asymptote of a circle, heading toward infinity, her long sparkling gown trailing on the tangent of her success. How she loved that word, asymptote, and when did she ever have the opportunity to exercise her superior vocabulary? Never. But today! Today was the day she might be able to escape the stuffy alcove at Shearson Legal Publishers where she analyzed and corrected the punctuation of stagnant law books (comma, semicolon, comma, colon, period). Today, if she played her cards right, she might be able to cross over and become a writer of articles, a professional!

All night, her scheme played like a movie over and over in the theatre of her mind. Today at work, she would go AWOL whenever Bruce Roller, the man from Chatter, called. Virginia knew what Chatter was doing: they were trying to lure her to talk to a staff writer, to kiss-and-tell-all, accept the money and, of course, as Mr. Roller pointed out, her fifteen minutes of fame.  If she spoke to Chatter and let them do the writing, after the issue appeared, she would slip back into the abyss of the banal, back to her dead-end job. Virginia had other ideas. 

Daily, the papers revealed names of more women involved with the senator, giving him a graveyard platform, a ghostly bully pulpit. From the other side, King extolled the virtues and vices of his favorite ladies, told secrets, perhaps ruined lives. For every name made public, there was a corresponding denial. Even the mayor's wife was on the senator's list, as were wives from his law firm, women who lived in grand houses, who had much to lose in a divorce. Virginia could imagine how upset they must be--so upset about their fifteen minutes of fame, they were probably cowering in their marble bathrooms, hiding out in their designer closets.

Although Virginia had been mere campaign staff, one of the workers who toiled for free, and later at low pay, in the senator's reelection campaign, she had come across nearly every woman on the senator's now-infamous catalog of trysts. This close proximity was also how she herself got involved with Senator King and ended up on his carnal tally sheet. She could still see him at her door--his suit somewhat rumpled as he held out a bouquet of flowers, probably quickly snagged from the supermarket--but she hadn't cared, the thought was right. Her eyes had risen from the spray of bachelor buttons and mums, up to his face where she saw his impish grin--those turquoise eyes--then fixated on the lock of auburn hair that trailed across his forehead--like a comma.

Biting her lip and sucking in a long breath, Virginia knew what she was planning to do was dangerous, for if she wrote articles about these women he had bedded, all of them would turn on her. She would be shunned.

Brewing herself a cup of coffee, Virginia thought it through one more time. What were the real risks of writing about all of them? These people weren't exactly inviting her over for dinner just because they liked her, were they? If she invited over a few of these women, would they really come to her shoebox apartment on the wrong side of town and have a nosh? Of course not. She was a lowly campaign worker who couldn't even get a job at the senate office after the election was over. Tossed away like yesterday's newspaper, she was merely someone who, for a few months, caught a glimpse into the lives of these women, attended $250 dollar a plate dinners and various campaign events in fancy homes. She got in for free because she was a worker, not because she really belonged there. So what bridge would she be burning if she wrote about the mayor's wife? What cliff would she be jumping off if she wrote something about every woman mentioned so far in the papers?

Virginia laughed out loud. She couldn't be kicked off the Social Register when she had never been on it. And what did she have to gain? A voice inside pealed like a clarion. Writer!  If she did it, she could launch a new career.

A curious energy pulsed through her veins. Could she pull this off? Could she write a story about each one of these women and make it entertaining? She knew her vocabulary was outstanding; certainly her grammar was excellent, and her syntax? Superb. All she had to do was seize this serendipitous turn of events and dive for the gold at the bottom of the literary wishing pond. Pushing her coffee cup aside, Virginia raised her head high, stood up, and took a regal walk into her small closet. If she was going to pull this off, she had to dress the part. 

Gazing in the mirror at the suit had donned, Virginia was horrified. She couldn't wear that to the meeting with the man from Chatter-- it made her look like a roll of coins. Instead, she went for the bohemian and tried on a skirt with a muted print, then slid on a dark brown v-necked blouse with a boxy tan cotton jacket that was long enough to hide the width of her hips, yet had that professional look of someone who was serious. Poising in front of her mirror, she practiced standing like a writer. 

Carefree, but competent: she put out a foot and bent her leg at the ankle the way she had seen models in fashion magazines.

Serious, but not austere: she bent one arm at the elbow and placed it on her hip. 

Intellectual with a hint of the literary, without being highbrow: she tilted her head to one side and practiced an intelligent gaze. 

Writer! She had to remember to look and play the part. She had to remember to be brave, bold, not worry about crossing over a line, a line that separated privacy from public view, etiquette from opportunity. Today was her chance, maybe the only chance she would ever have, and she wouldn't--couldn't--lose her nerve and let her most cherished dream die.       

Around coffee break time when the lawyers and editing staff at Shearson Legal began to head down to the cafeteria, Virginia got the call. Bruce Roller was at a local coffee house a few blocks away, and he was waiting for her. She put down her well-chewed blue pencil, stood up and walked defiantly out of her alcove and boldly down the front steps, leaving the office--and its musty law books--behind. 

Somewhere along the way to meet the man from Chatter, Virginia spotted a row of tabloids at a corner store.  Her breath came in short gasps; her heartbeat rapid as a sparrow's.  Panic attack. Not now. Approaching the stand of papers as though she was sneaking up on a land mine, she forced herself to pluck out Chatter and read a few pages.

Oh my lord, it was horrible. The superlatives were like sugar on an open cavity, to read them actually made her teeth ache. Her inner voice whispered, Five thousand dollars and a chance to become a professional! She had to think of the future. How else could she become published so quickly? Where else could she get such money?  

Hands trembling, Virginia inched the tabloid back into place. There was only one way to write for this rag:  she would have to become an actress, an impostor! She would have to bury her splendid vocabulary, dip into a fetid pool of hackneyed modifiers and actually use multiple adverbs and worn-out clichés. The mere thought made her swoon. Steadying herself on the side of the stand, Virginia thought she might lose her nerve and pass out in front of Speedy's Newz and Booze. 

Virginia checked her watch and gasped, she was going to be late! Hurrying on, she ignored the sweat that suddenly clung to her face and neck. Calm down, she mumbled out loud.  Words always composed her. The bigger the word, the more obscure, the better she liked it. She bragged to herself, and anyone else who was interested, that she knew just about every word in the dictionary, and even some words that weren't. E-R-E-P-T-I-O-N, she spelled to herself.  Ereption. It meant stealing an opportunity. And no one would snatch away this dream of hers, this dream to become a writer. Spelling ereption over and over, one letter for each step, Virginia found the rhythm comforting. Next, she spelled expropriate, then serendipity.

The restaurant tables came into view. Every nerve tensed. Several tables were already occupied outside. And there, furthest away from the restaurant door, was a man with sandy hair that, oddly enough, matched his tweed coat.

“Mr. Roller?” she said cautiously. “I'm Virginia. Virginia Spellenberg.” Summoning all her courage, she thrust out her hand.   

“I know them all,” Virginia found herself saying as she tried not to pay attention to the thicket of smoke-stained teeth behind Mr. Roller's clipped moustache. “I don't just want to give you my story about my relationship with Senator King. I would like to write articles for Chatter.” Her voice caught in the back of her throat and no more words came out. Dropping her eyes to the table, she focused, then forced herself to look at him while she said with all the energy she could muster, “Did you know I'm an editor? I could write about every woman mentioned in the papers.  I've met them all.” Inwardly, she scolded herself for talking too fast.

Bruce Roller's eyes widened now, the sagging skin hooding his eyelids stretched upward, making him look clownish, like his eyebrows had been painted into hoops. 

Virginia caught her breath and rushed onward. “And photos. I can get you photos that go way back. Good quality ones. Professional. I could probably find pictures of each of the women alone with the senator, that is, after cropping.”  She pinched her lips together and hoped she could pull that off. She knew the photographers who hung around the campaign. Of course they would get her photos. If money was involved, they would worship at her feet.

The man from Chatter remained silent. Virginia tried to read his face, but there were no clues. A small voice inside in her head chided her for selling out. Another voice countered, Writer. Published writer. The two voices began to bicker, one chanting, Sell out!  The other screamed, Writer! While the squabble in her head grew louder and louder, the pain, like a dozen hot needles, hammered into her temples, beat into the flesh of her brain.   

Finally, Roller spoke, his clipped British accent exotic. “Tell you what, Virginia. I'll give you a shot. I did want you to tell a staff writer about your own experiences with the senator, but since you know these people…I'll give you a chance. Bring me a story about one of the women on the senator's list. And if you've got photos, that's even better. Even better.” He nodded to himself and stubbed his cigarette into the over-flowing ashtray. “Chatter will pay handsomely for photos, you know. Good ones.”

Hands visibly shaking, Virginia fetched a notebook from her tote and opened it. “W-w-where do you want me to start? I mean, which woman should be first?”

“That's up to you. Bring me something dramatic. Before we go too far with this, I've got to see what kind of a writer you are and what you know. If I like it, I'll buy it. Same price I told you on the phone.”

They shook hands and planned to meet tomorrow. By tomorrow, Virginia would be carrying her newly written article, and the man from Chatter would have a check, a big check.  Enough to pay her rent for five months. A small smile curled at Virginia's lips; on Monday, she might--no would--join the ranks of the published. Never mind the papers wouldn't exactly be on newsstands--they would be at convenience stores and supermarket check-out counters--and never mind that she would be telling tales about the people she knew, putting rumors and catty innuendos down on paper as though they were facts. She closed her mind to the jumble of voices in her head and concentrated on the wild singing of her heart. 

At the corner, Virginia faced the man from Chatter and put a hand casually on her hip and tilted her head to one side the way she had practiced, and looked squarely into Bruce Roller's hooded eyes. “So what angle do you want?”

“Angle?” he said.                   

Damn. She had watched too many old movies. “Point of view. First person from a personal POV? Maybe confession-style? Or third person from the perspective of a reporter?”

Roller's mouth turned down and he shrugged. “Show me what you can do. But make it real. That's what Chatter readers like. Lots of quotes.” He waved his hand in the air like he was a potentate sending blessings down from a high balcony. “Make them up if you have to. Realism.”

Like a mole coming into the light, Virginia blinked rapidly.

Before Roller turned his back and strolled away, he nodded almost to himself and said, “Make it bomb.”

What? What did he say? She wanted to call after him and have him repeat himself, but his tweed coat had already blended into the crowd.  All the way back to her alcove at Shearson, Virginia contemplated what Roller might have said. Bomb? Balm? Calm? Make it bomb made no sense. Clawing through the bookshelf behind her desk, she grabbed her huge Webster's and madly flipped the pages. Maybe she had heard bon, French for good and his English accent fooled her. To bomb was to fail. He wouldn't have wished that on her, would he? 

Virginia slumped in her chair and stared into the depths of her computer screen, heart pounding in her chest. The piece was due tomorrow. She had to perform, choose one of these women and craft a wild story about the senator. In her mind's eye, she pictured an empty stage with one small circle of light. Virginia imagined herself walking into that spotlight. She took her place at the keyboard, lifted her hands, and then with great concentration, began to perform.

What could have captivated dozens of ladies so completely that married women saw him on the sly, single women hoped to marry him, older women found him the answer to their dreams and younger women eagerly surrendered their virginity?

Virginia's mouth tilted into a smile. She could do this.