Fletch Reflected

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“Faoni.” In fact, he was answering the telephone at Andy Cyst’s desk in the huge Global Cable News building in Virginia. He had no desk, or telephone, of his own.

The switchboard knew he was working with Andy Cyst.

“Fletch?”

“Who is this?”

The young woman’s voice said, “Is this Fletch?”

“Yeah. Jack. Faoni. Fletch.”

“I know your name is Jack Faoni. The weekend we spent together you had me call you Fletch.”

“When was that?”

“Skiing. In Stowe, Vermont. A few years ago. We met there. At The Shed. You were with some other guys from a lumber camp. Playing your guitar. People were buying you beer to keep you playing. Well, I sort of kidnapped you. First, I kidnapped your guitar.” Her voice was low, and warm. “When you pursued me to the parking lot to get your guitar back, I grabbed you. It was snowing. You were very hot. I ripped your shirt. I pulled it down off your shoulders. Do you remember the snowflakes falling on your sweating shoulders while we kissed? You sizzled.”

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