He woke with a cold Tuesday morning, rolled over, and went back to sleep. He called the office around ten; no one answered. He spent the day at home, sitting in the living room, reading the paper, watching TV, wishing he had chicken soup on hand for days like this. His mother would have brought some over, no doubt, but she would have worried. He called again around two; the boss answered, gave a distracted reply, and said to come in when he felt better. The chills had passed by the afternoon, and by six he felt hungry enough to drive over to Manner’s for a hamburger. He sneezed a lot, and the waitress put the burger on the edge of the table and pushed it instead of leaning over to set it before him. The whole day felt like a waste, like a winning ticket you found wadded in the pants pocket you’d had laundered.

Joe looked at himself in the mirror Wednesday morning: I’ve seen worse. He drove to the office, rode up with the rest of the tenants in the automatic elevator, let out a great sneeze as soon as he stepped out of the car. On the other hand, why be so concerned? Who’d he get this cold from, anyway? One of them, probably. It was just going to get worse if they finally converted Seamus’ car; then everyone would trade germs as they pushed the buttons for their floors. Look at Seamus. Never missed a day.

On his desk were the proofs for the drugstore matchbooks. Nice job. He’d run them over today or tomorrow, get a nice order out of that old half-deaf fool who ran the place. He sat down at his desk, regretting having left the house in the first place.

Check the mail. Anything from SALT LAKE GODDAMN CITY? NO? Good, then. A pen and brush catalog. An invoice for supplies. A copy of Men’s Life, which he had convinced the boss was a great source of ideas for lettering and illustration. Which it was, really, but he suspected the boss just liked having it around. He would wander in to Joe’s office now and then, page through an issue, make a comment. He used the language of someone who learned about the female anatomy at age 10 from an older boy aged 14, and Joe never knew how to respond. Well, not this morning. The boss wasn’t around again. Joe couldn’t blame him, but it was bad for business when the phone rang unanswered. Maybe they should take on a receptionist; they could afford it now.

He felt a flutter in his stomach: a receptionist. Great legs, glasses, hair in a bun, watch out brother when she lets it down. That might be nice. Someone he could crack wise with on his way in and out. Someone he could court on the sly without it seeming like it meant anything. Someone he could watch go off with Frank the first time he showed up in the office.

Forget it.

An order: put together a book for an Italian restaurant. Easily done. Checked pattern, chef kissing his fingers, clip-art text on the spine. Maybe go with the gondolier for variety. He pasted up the design, then went downstairs to eat. It had been, what, five days since he had their grilled cheese? He missed them.

“You changed the pickles,” he said when the waitress brought the check.

“We did?”

“They’re sliced. They used to be wedges.”

She gave him a look. “And yet the world turns.”

“Just pointing it out.”

She smiled. “Sorry. You want something else? More coffee? Orange juice? An Alka-Setzler? You look like you got a case of it.”

“Just a cold. I’ll live.”

“You do that, honey.” She scooped up his plate and water glass and headed down the counter.

“There you are,” said a voice behind him. He turned around.

“I thought you were a regular here,” she said. She sat on the stool next to him and put her purse and magazine on the counter. She was wearing a black dress today, and her lips were tinted coral.

“Hello,” he said. Something else would come to him eventually, he thought, but he had no idea what.

“I have a job for you. You’re my matchbook expert.” She smiled. “Sherlock, right?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Jane.” She held out her hand.

“Joe.” He held out his hand to take hers, but took it back. “I have a cold, probably shouldn’t –“

“Yes, my, you do. Well, it’s going around. So, you invent matchbooks, right? Did I get that right?” He nodded. “So tell me about this.”

She put down a book on the counter. “The other day I was in the neighborhood here because I had to meet a friend, who had to go here.” She tapped the matchbook. “We were going to do some shopping. Well. She wanted to just duck in to this place, here, like it had just occurred to her she wanted to take out a loan? And we were sitting there, talking to this man about money and interest and all this bank slang, and I look at this matchbook and think: something isn’t right. Look. What do you see?”

Joe looked at the matchbook. “Well, it’s a template job. They didn’t spring for a custom, just had the shop put their name on the front and back. See? There’s room to add the customer name here. And here.”

“That’s what I thought. I thought I should take this match to my matchbook detective and ask him what he thinks. So would you borrow money from a place that has cheap matches?”

Joe stared at her. This was all a dream. Some crazy fever dream where pickles came in slices and she had showed up at the lobby grill every day he was away, looking for him. Wanting to talk. Wanting to talk about a matchbook.

“Depends how much you need it,” he said. “It’s not a bank, really. It’s a loan outfit. Legit, but they charge interest rates that’ll bleed you white. Your friend – she really needs the money?”

Jane nodded. She looked away, and opened her purse. “Not that she’s desperate.” She looked back at Joe. “But times could be better, you know?” She had a cigarette out. He lit it with the one-hand move.

And sneezed full in her face.