THE RABBIT, lying atop her au lait, has nothing to say--she kills it with a spoon, gently, but there is no future to be found in the viscera of froth and coffee. The brain suggests email; the heart, to Reach Out and Touch Him; the couple, wedged into the banquette beside her, orders in a slurry blur: two croissants, two Americanos extra hot; the metastasizing fish in her belly has no comment; What Had Happened in Vegas would not Stay in Vegas, but would board American Air # 939 with her, absorb her Salisbury Meat and tepid neat vodkas. Buzzed on Bloody Marys in the casino early this morning, she had cranked the levers of the slots with gusto, allowed herself this brief misery: surely it would have had her duck feet and sharp shoulders, his big teeth and patchy hair: Mon Dieu, what an ugly bastard! She looks up from her dead bunny; the fat man's purpling face like an infant's in full squall. The Heimlich is no easy maneuver, her fingers barely lacing his gut. The croissant lay at her feet, its soft back curled and glistening.
