Thursday night Edna and Irv went out for dinner, Ein was out on the town, so Jig and Isaac were alone in the house. They stood in Jig's room, Isaac on the floor and Jig on her bed. They were placing pictures Isaac had brought from his journeys of men smiling enough to show their teeth on the wall behind her bed. He always collected them for her, and she always appreciated them. She saw one and started to laugh.

"Oh I like this one," she said and showed him the picture in her hands. It was of a homeless man of about eighty with a near toothless grin and holding up a sandwich in celebration of something. Isaac laughed seeing it too.

"Yeah, I thought you'd like that one. His name is Claude, he had just found out he's a grandfather," Isaac told her.

"Aw. Why does he look familiar?"

"He was in one of my movies…."

"Oh yeah. The chase through Paris. Didn't you almost hit him?"

"Well, yeah… But it was on purpose…" Isaac said with a glance to her before turning to paste more pictures on the wall. Jig chuckled slightly and shook her head.

"I'd never question it," she told him. He nodded to her, pleased. Suddenly the alarm on Isaac's digital watch started beeping and Isaac turned it off before it became annoying.

"Oh damn. Hey I gotta go, can I use your phone first though?" Isaac asked her. Jig was disappointed but nodded to him.

"Thanks," he said and ran out the door. Jig bit her lower lip and turned back to her wall. Then quickly Isaac ran back into her room, lifted himself onto her bed with his leg, and kissed her briefly on the lips.

"I love you," he said and ran back out the door. Jig smiled when he was out of sight, she thought to herself for a few minutes, then shook her head, giggling very slightly.

That night Ephram got a phone call. He was told nothing but to be sitting on his back porch in an hour. He had an idea who the call was from, but decided to follow the instructions just the same. As expected, an hour after the phone first rung, Ephram was joined on the swing on his back porch. Ephram held his arms around him tightly, for warmth; the person next to him was wearing so many layers of clothing no heat could escape.

"So what did you want to talk to me about?" Ephram asked, staring coldly at the cold street across from him. Isaac sighed, and the frozen water of his breath danced briefly in front of him.

"We're never going to like each other, you and I. I've pretty much decided on that and I'm sure you have too," Isaac started. Ephram nodded in complete agreement. Isaac sighed again.

"I hope you never have to live without her always in your life. If she's not there for just a single day it feels like a chunk of your heart is gone…"
Isaac told him. Ephram turned to him.

"Then why did you leave?" he asked with no malice in his voice. Isaac let out another sigh, only this time deeper than before.

"It had always been my dream to be an actor, always. Plus I never knew it would hurt this much. But it's too late now; I'm in too deep. It's like, like wanting to feel what it's like to be in quicksand, but once you try it and decide it's enough, you can't get out… you're stuck."

"But you're not stuck; you can get out any time…" Ephram reminded him. Isaac turned to him, sadly.

"No I can't. I have contracts and responsibilities; I have my money going to 25 different charities in LA alone, they all depend on me. Besides, even if I could get out, I have no place in her life anymore… you're her best friend."

"Are you kidding me? Ever since you got here I've barely seen her, and, and when I do, all she talks about is you…" Ephram reassured him. Isaac's eyes narrowed into an expression that could look like sadness, but was actually joy.

"I asked her to marry me once," he said. Ephram thought nothing of it.

"When you were like, five, right?"

"No," Isaac said and this surprised Ephram. "It was two years ago, when I got my first staring role. I spent most of my salary to buy her this gorgeous ring; I took her to dinner, the whole nine yards. But she turned me down. Told me to ask again on her eighteenth birthday, and I will, I still have the ring," Isaac explained reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small ring box. He opened it and showed Ephram the gold-banded Amethyst stone surrounded by small diamonds. Ephram inhaled strongly but silently and held it. At that point Andy opened the door and peered out at the boy presenting an engagement ring to his son, paused, shook his head, and went back inside. Isaac closed the box again and Ephram finally exhaled.

"She'll only say 'no' again," Ephram told him. Isaac nodded, looking at the closed box.

"Yeah," he replied and sighed, "You know, I believe that every woman should have only one engagement ring throughout her life. So, that's why I wanted to talk to you. Here," Isaac said and placed the ring box in Ephram's hand. Ephram stared at the box in complete and utter… fear. He turned to look at Isaac in quite the same way as he had gazed at the box.

"But I'm not marrying Jig!" Ephram yelled. Isaac sighed and shook his head.

"Of course you're not. I'd kill you before you could. But, you'll probably still be her friend when some undeserving guy asks her, and he'll come to you for advice, and you will give him that ring. Understand?" Isaac asked him. Ephram looked once again at the box before nodding.

"Good, now, I have to go, take good care of that, and never tell her about it," Isaac said standing up and walking down the porch steps and toward the road. Ephram watched as Isaac stepped into a limo and rode off. Then he opened the box in his hand and stared at the magnificent ring. He smiled. It would be perfect for the paling color of her hands.

Her eye still hurt. Not as it had, but it still bothered her. During math she usually placed her chin on the palm of her hand and rested her fingers on her cheek. Today, however, she could not, for that particular part of her cheek hurt when touched, and switching to the other cheek was unthinkable. Some how she managed to survive until art class rolled around again was mystifying. Art was quickly becoming Delia's least favorite of classes. She usually got more colors on skin than on paper. She didn't even get graded on that. Though that really didn't bother her so much. It was her eye that bothered her, and the look on Torres' face, even when he hadn't been looking at her. She imagined her eye looked about as bad as his nose, it probably felt the same as well. She hoped he didn't have a cold.

Somewhere, something inside of Delia went very, very wrong. She found her legs, against all of her will, raising the rest of her, and walking her carefully toward Torres. Despite Delia's objections, some power beyond her self stopped her behind him, and forbid her from moving. Then her mouth and vocal cords retaliated against her as well. No doubt in a conspiracy.

"We need to talk," Delia's mouth said. Torres' head shot up and he looked at her. He got out of his chair and faced her.

"What?"

"I didn't mean to hit you before. Well, I did, but, you see my dad told me that guys show that they like you by punching and I like you so I hit you! And then when I came over to talk to you again you hit me and I didn't get a chance to apologize for before so I'm sorry!" Delia's mouth muttered, this time with her mind consenting to it, in one very long breath. Torres blinked a few times, most likely from confusion rather than dry eyeballs. Then he nodded. Very quickly, and ironically by no will of his own, Torres leaned forward, and kissed Delia briefly on the lips. He then quickly pulled away, under his own control, and the two nine year olds stared at each other, no words and no ideas coming to either. Then, suddenly, the same idea came to them both at once. Flight. Delia took a step to the left and Torres one to the right. Unfortunately, two steps were needed on both accounts, and the two collided. They each took a step in the opposite direction they had before, and collided yet again. Finally Delia turned around and walked forward, and Torres stood still. Delia sat down at her table again and answered Murasaki nothing.

Andy walked into the library with a bouquet of primrose. He had realized that he had a small ability of, well, getting in where he doesn't belong in other people's lives. Safe to say, he was sure he had done it yet again, this time to Penny. It was true, their relationship went nothing beyond an exchange of literature and a few minutes of speech, but they were some few minutes he happened to enjoy. He found that it was rare to find people in Everwood with the same knowledge as him, in any subject. Penny, however, seemed to have his knowledge and choice of books, and that was something. He never brought up any personal information about her unless she initiated it, and she already knew everything about him. Even through their minor conversations, Andy learned Penny was not an incredibly open person when it came to her own life. The life of Shakespeare and Tennyson she could go into great detail, but her own life, it seemed like that space had been covered, buried, even. And Andy had tried to dig it up again. That scar, that child, for he knew what the scars were, must be a painful memory for her. Even Nina wouldn't tell him about it, and Nina would tell him anything.

He found the desk empty, as he would suspect and prefer it to be. He placed the primroses and Headlong Hall on the countertop. He looked around to see if she was coming in any direction, but found no sight of her. Being a librarian kept Penny quite busy. Andy sighed, straightened the bouquet so it looked nicer laying on the book, and headed for the way out. A few steps short of the exit his hand swept his coat pocket and he stopped. He reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out A Dead Man in Deptford by Anthony Burgess. Andy quickly looked at the back of the book to find himself named as the borrower. He sighed and searched the library again from where he stood. He saw no one but a four foot three, seventy year old woman looking at the large print selection. Andy turned back to the book and smiled, shaking his head.

"How the hell does she do that?" he asked and walked out with the book in hand.