The rain had come, as it sometimes does in the days before Christmas. One bigoted son-of-a-bitch in the office – who shall remain nameless – blamed it on the Jews. Harry only kept him on because he happened to be a damn good editor. But he would never be promoted to executive, despite his outrage at being associate for over ten years. Harry was a devoted businessman, but he also had a heart.

That evening, as the pre-Christmas party warmed up in the penthouse, Jan was speed-reading through the entire pile of manuscripts on her desk.

Harry appeared in her doorway holding a glass of champagne. His neck tie was loose, as well as the toupee. He looked a bit tipsy as he leaned against the door jamb.

“Why is your door always opened?” he said. “You never close it, never lock it, even when you have meetings in here.”

“I have a bit of claustrophobia,” she replied without looking at him.

“Oh...I didn’t know that. When did that come about?”

She abruptly switched subjects. “I’m busy Harry.”

“I told you to read, not to hibernate. I want you to join the Christmas party upstairs.”

“Thanks, but I’m not in a celebrating mood today.”

“Come on Jan, have some fun. You need it. Hey, how do I look? This one’s different, a little darker.” Harry smiled, and pointed to the toupee on his head.

Jan looked up from the manuscript and smiled. “It looks better than the other one, but you don’t have to impress anyone in this office.”

“I realize that, but we have some prominent people upstairs. Some of the top agents came in for the celebration, and some of our best writers.”

She frowned at him. “Harry…don’t tell me.”

“Yes, he’s here. His agent brought him. What am I supposed to do? He may go to another publisher if we don’t schmooze him.”

“Good, that’s exactly what I want him to do. We can get along without him. You can void his contract.”

“It isn’t that simple Jan; there could be legal ramifications.”

“What ramifications?”

“I won’t discuss that.” He pointed toward the pile of manuscripts on her desk. “Something good on that pile?”

“No, the usual dribble.”

“I’ll have Susie bring you another load on Monday, a smaller load. She’s been wanting to read. I told her she could split the workload with you.”

Jan didn’t like the sound of it. “That’s really not necessary.”

“Yes it is. Remember what I said in my office Jan.”

“But Harry --”

“Discussion’s over. Meanwhile, I’m expecting you upstairs in five minutes.”

There must have been thirty people crowded into Harry’s office. He did it every year before the holidays; a thank you party for those who stayed loyal, those who made him money, people he schmoozed, and the good schmoozers who worked for him.

As always, there was the lavish catered buffet spread out on a long narrow table covered with an elegant white table cloth. On the table were bottles of Korbel champagne chilling in silver ice buckets, a mound of black caviar in a sterling silver bowl, buttered matzoh (Harry’s own special appetizer), roll-top chafing dishes filled with assorted meats, fish, and steamed vegetables, and a separate, portable salad bar. In the corner of Harry’s huge office a string quartet played renditions from the classical era.

Jan walked slowly through the open double doors. She didn’t look at anyone in particular, but went immediately to the buffet table, preferring to remain unnoticed. She was alone momentarily, but as she started down the buffet table, slapping food on her plate, a familiar voice whispered over her shoulder.

“Hello Jan.”

She glanced over her shoulder at her x-husband. “Good-bye Peter.”

“We already said our good-byes. We’re divorced…it’s over. We can still be civil to each other.”

“You can…I can’t.” She turned around and faced him. Peter Lipschitz was smiling and sipping champagne. He was often smiling at people. It came natural to him. He was a good-looking cad, thirty five, slim, dark wavy hair, broad shouldered, flat stomach, muscular arms. He looked more like a health club instructor or a fireman. In fact, when he wasn’t writing, he was usually at the local health club working out.

“Come meet my new agent,” he said. “She’s a great negotiator. I think Harry’s going to extend my contract.”

Jan sneered at him. “I’m voting for cancellation. I’d rather not have to look at you again.”

“Come on, Jan. I made my mistakes, and I’m sorry. I like women; maybe I like them too much.”

“The problem is, you don’t know how to love them. You only know how to use them. You used me to introduce you to Harry, to get you your first contract, to have your first book published, and your second, and your third. You used me, Peter, until you didn’t need me anymore. So you started cheating; while you were supposed to be writing you were humping girls you met at book signings, girls you met at the diner, girls you met in your writing classes. Peter, you’re a louse. This new agent, you’ll use her too. Because you’re a taker. And in the end you’ll die alone. We won’t be there to comfort you.”

Peter shook his head. “Jan, you’re such a downer. You always were a downer, too damn serious for your own good. You’re angry at me, I can’t blame you for that. But your anger came from some other place, and I could never figure out where. You made it difficult to be around you.”

“Peter?” An attractive woman in her thirties approached. She was dressed in a tight black skirt that showed plenty of leg, and a matching, low-cut blouse that showed plenty of cleavage. A rose-colored pearl necklace and matching earrings, and a pair of black-leather pumps completed the picture of a rather well-to-do woman, probably divorced, who ran her own agency and enjoyed being single.

“Charlotte, this is Jan, my x-wife.” Peter stitched a smile on his face. “Jan, meet Charlotte, my new agent.”

Charlotte extended her hand. “Please to meet you Jan.”

Jan forced herself to smile and grit her teeth at the same time as she shook the woman’s hand. “Hello,” she said softly without a trace of emotion.

“Have you read the first chapters of Peter’s new novel?”

“Actually, I haven’t. But after being married to him for almost five years, there is one important thing I can tell you about Peter.”

“Oh…what might that be?”

“To Peter, good writing and good character are mutually exclusive.”

She started to walk away with her plate of food, but Peter grabbed her by the arm. “Jan, take that back. That’s a cheap shot. You better apologize.”

Jan smiled mockingly at him. “Apologize? Okay.” In a flash of anger she mashed the plate of food against his face.

“Damn it Jan!” Peter peeled the food off his face as Charlotte reeled back in disbelief.

Jan scoffed at them both. “There’s my apology.”

Harry heard the commotion and broke away from his conversation with one of the agents. He hurried over to the buffet table, spilling champagne, as the noisy room went silent. “What the hell happened here? Jan?”

“The food’s no good, Harry, and neither is he.”

She walked quickly away and out of the office. The buzz of conversation resumed among the guests. Harry helped Peter to clean the food off his face and his clothes. “I’ll have a talk with her on Monday. Did you say something to set her off?”

“She made a wise crack about me and I told her to apologize,” replied Peter.

“And she really let you have it,” said Harry smiling. “Come on, you can use my wash room to clean up.”

It was dark and still raining when Jan drove out of the parking garage. Her face was red from high blood pressure after the incident. She only wanted to go home, take a shower, and go to sleep. As she drove through the empty rain-soaked streets, her distraction took her in the wrong direction, and she soon found herself on 8th street headed north.

When she slowed for a red light she instinctively glanced over to the sidewalk, and there, standing in the rain, she saw the same man, playing his clarinet for no one.

The street was completely empty and silent, except for the lonely echoes of the music and the constant drum beat of the rain as it hit the street. Jan continued watching the man until the traffic light turned green, then she drove on home.