Malany was sitting in bed, hunched intently over a book. “Where have you been?” She made a face with a wrinkled nose. “You smell like meat and cigarette smoke.”
Beckman ignored her for a moment. He flopped down in the only chair. “I’m only human,” he said apologetically.
Malany looked disgusted. “More human than I realized.”
Beckman pretended to ignore her.
“Oh God, Beckman. You’re such a defeatist. I’ve learned that about you.”
Beckman smiled and brought out the leaflets announcing her poetry reading. He told her of his call to the newspaper and his plan for distributing the leaflets. Malany was truly, genuinely pleased, and even though she said nothing about the composition of the leaflets, her eyes glittered when she saw them.
“Would a defeatist even attempt what I’ve done, and wo
