Veronica has the best apartment in town.

It's on the third story and has big plate glass

windows that look straight down on the town common.

She has a bird's eye view of all the protestors,

the fairs, the lovers, people eating lunch on

park benches; in general, the life-blood of the

town. The more Veronica watched all these little

dramas, the less desire she had to actually go

out and be one herself. I called her from time

to time, but her conversation consisted of her

descriptions of what was going on in the common.

"Now he's kissing her and saying good-bye. He's

getting on the bus. The bus is pulling out.

Wait a minute, she's just joined hands with

another guy. I can't believe it! These people

are behaving like trash. There's a real tiny

old lady with a walker trying to go into the

bookstore, but she keeps stopping and looking

over her shoulder. She thinks she's being

followed." "Veronica," I say, "I'm dying."

"Two of the richest and nastiest lawyers in

town are arguing over by the drinking fountain.

They're actually shouting, I can almost hear

them. Oh my god, one of them has shoved the

other. It's incredible, Artie. You should be

here," she says. "War has been declared with

England, Veronica. Have you heard that?" I

say. "That's great, Artie," she says. "Remember

the girl who kissed the guy getting on the bus

and then immediately took up with the other guy?

Well, now she's flirting with the parking officer

and he's loving it and flirting back with her.

He just tore up a ticket he had written for her.

I'm really beginning to like this girl after all."

"That's great Veronica," I say. "Why don't

you check and see if your little panties are

on fire yet," and I hang up, and I don't think

she even notices. I wonder if I'm supposed to

be worried about her. But in the end I don't.

Veronica has the best apartment in town.

—James Tate