'My name is Shelly,'� she instructed, with her marker crawling across the dry erase board so her husband could emulate her letters. 'If you write it down, it might help you remember.'�

Walter glanced down at the notepad in front of him for a moment, and then picked up the pen beside it. He looked up again, uncertain.

'Write it down,'� she said again, and took his hand. She placed it on the pad and helped him form the letters.

'SHEH-lee,'� she said, each syllable distinct.

*

'Hey, Biff,'� Walter said, as he walked into the greasy spoon for his daily cup of soup. Walter bore his impressive height with the grace of royalty. His dirty blonde hair cropped close to his head, directing attention to his Roman nose, strong chin, and feline green eyes, a striking profile that attracted acclaim from theater critics and impressionable college women alike.

'It's Dave,'� the man at the grill replied, turning to face Walter while he wiped off his spatula. Two year's worth of faded dirt and food stains spotted his cooking apron.

'How's it going?'� Walter asked as he sat at the counter.

'Everyday, I tell you my name's not Biff,'� Dave replied, shaking his head. His coarse black mustache, like a paintbrush, hid the serious straight line of his mouth. 'You never remember it.'�

Walter thought about this for a moment. Dave turned back to his grill and sprayed it, listening to the cleaner sizzle and watching thin wisps of smoke rise up. He scrubbed its surface with a brush.

The closing of Lowe's After-Dinner Theater, a centerpiece for the local artistic community for over forty years, had caused no shortage of distress for all manners of people. The theater had finished its career with a moderately successful run of 'Death of a Salesman.'�

Most affected by the theater's closing, however, was Walter Bixby. Bixby, a fixture in the theater for over a decade, had landed the main role in 'Salesman.'� The man commanded an enormous amount of respect from the artistic community due to his staying power and commendable acting abilities.

'I saw the things that I love in this world,'� Walter said while lighting a smoke and perusing a menu. 'The work and the food and the time to sit and smoke.'�

Dave scrunched his face in confusion.

'You're not making any sense, Walter,'� he said.

He paused in cleaning the grill, feeling saddened by all of it.

*

'Do you want me to be Linda again?'� she asked as she removed her clothes in front of Walter, her silhouette lined with the red light filtering through the curtain from the hallway. Multiple images from throughout his lifetime played in his head, a confluence of fantasy encompassing both the real and the imagined: his wife, the prostitute, women from stage productions.

'Not tonight,'� he said, sitting on the bed's edge. 'Maybe Letta is okay, tonight.'�

'Letta?'� she asked, as she came to him, pressing her open palms against his bare chest, reclining him on her bed.
In his prime, Walter swore by the Method acting approach, often immersing himself in his roles for days at a time. He developed his characters in small corner bars and nightclubs, portraying it to unsuspecting audiences of twenty something college students and young professionals.

'It's Latin,'� he explained, and could feel her shoulders shrug.

'I'll be whoever you want.'�

Her submission sent a shiver of pleasure through Walter. The only audience left, the prostitute opened her legs and accepted him.

*

'It's not real, Walter,'� Shelly said, caressing the back of his hand over the luncheonette's formica table. 'None of it is.'�

'But Linda''�

'No,'� she said, and bit her lip against the emotion that threatened to escape through her eyes. Lines of care and concern wrinkled her face. 'I'm not Linda. Maybe I was, once, but that wasn't real.'�

Walter listened with rapt attention, but the thoughts in his head ran rampant, crashing into the insides of his skull and each other.

'What's my name, Walter?'�

'I know who you are,'� he said, averting his gaze. A forgotten potato salad sandwich lay on a plate in front of Walter.

'What's my name?'� she demanded.

'Your name is'�'� Walter began, and trailed off into a jumble of incoherency.

'It's Shelly,'� she whispered. 'My name is Shelly.'�

'The work and the food and the time to sit and smoke,'� he quoted. 'And I looked at the pen and I thought, what the hell am I grabbing this for?'�

Resting her elbows on the table, with her head in her hands, Shelly sobbed.

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