The Unchangeable Spots of Leopards by Kristopher Jansma

off, hands hiding his face as though he were some sort of criminal.
    “Terribly sorry, everyone,” I say to the room. “Just a small misunderstanding.”
    “You know you’ve really done it this time,” Evelyn says softly, as Just Jo begins her song over again.
    “He’ll get over it,” I say.
    Evelyn looks skeptical. True, I’ve never gotten a story about him published before, but I have been down this road with Julian many times. The truth is that without me he has no one—just Evelyn, who gets tired of him without me around, and a long string of wine bottles and a longer string of Simons, each emptier than the last. Without me around he’ll lose what little sanity he has left.
    I go on. “He’ll break into my room now. Read it. Spend half an hour figuring out how to delete the file. But that’s fine, the Vicksburg people already have it.”
    “How many times have I told you to make backups? Don’t you ever learn?”
    This I ignore, because what is there to say? No, I don’t. None of us ever learns.
    “He’ll drink half our Grey Goose and pass out on the bathroom floor. I’ll bring home some Campari tonight and we’ll do our whole Hemingway-and-Fitzgerald routine. Secretly, he’s flattered already. He might even tell me he liked the story.”
    “You’d better hope you’re right. Where else would you go?”
    I shrug. “Will we be seeing Mitchell King again?”
    “No, I don’t think we will.”
    It is always this way with her: she brings them here to us once they begin to bore her, and we devour them. It is all routine.
    Now that it’s actually just us—just Evelyn and I—strangely, I feel that there is nothing left to say. Or, really, that we’ve said all there is to say, too many times before. What is the point of running through these lines one more time?
    She says, “You should start seeing somebody else.”
    And I say, “Is this about money?”
    She: “Don’t be absurd.”
    And I: “You’re the one who’s being absurd.”
    “We can’t keep going on like this.”
    “Then go.”
    We do not move.
    She says, “You know you only think you want me.”
    And I say, “You know you only think you don’t.”
    She sighs. “You’re such a liar.”
    “Quit acting.” I grin.
    Long silence. Thinking that maybe we can get philosophical about Beckett again, I ask, “What time is your audition tomorrow? I’m sure it will go well. Why don’t I come along and then take you out after to celebrate?”
    She sits back. “No. I have to stay focused.”
    And that is that. Alone together, we are worse than worthless.
    Amy comes by with our bill, still terrified I think, that Julian is going to sic the managers on her, though she’s done nothing wrong. The little faux-leather booklet lies between Evelyn and me for a long, cold moment. Ordinarily Julian pays. I reach for my wallet, which we both know is empty. She reaches for her purse.
    “My treat,” she says. “To celebrate. For the story.” She drops two hundreds on the table as if it were nothing. For her, it is.
    It is, in fact, more than I’ll be paid for the story.
    “I’ll get it next time,” I lie. I’ll never get it. We both know it.
    “See you next Sunday,” she says and kisses me gently on the forehead. Then she taps my bluebells with her finger and I’m left to listen to the end of “At Last,” alone.
    I can’t go on, I think to myself, scraping Julian’s eggs off my shirt. I’ll go on.
    Curly-haired Amy comes back with the change. I siphon off an overapologetic tip and slide it back to her. Her nose stud glints as her round face breaks into a smile. “Thanks so much.”
    She thinks the money is mine and I don’t correct her. In fact, I tuck the ample remainder into my pocket and pour myself the last of the Champagne. As I do, I notice Evelyn hovering by the mirror at the exit, fixing her makeup. Or pretending to.
    “So,” Amy says, beginning to clean up the eggs sans Benedict that Julian has splattered, “how do