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Joseph Corbin's office looked like a time capsule in the middle of Tops, Inc. The rest of the fifteenth floor had gone through several design motifs in the last ten years—from thirties retro white plastic and chrome to brick walls and Giottoesque murals of famous scenes in journalism (Addison and Steele at work, Nixon's last press conference, the death of JFK, Jr.). But Corbin hated change; no matter what the interior design people said, he believed that black and white pinstripe curtains and grey vinyl furniture represented a classic sensibility that could never go out of style. The design people sometimes asked if they could at least paint his white walls a color, but Corbin always said "No, I don't like visual over–stimulation." Even his carpet, once burgundy, had faded over time to a slightly rosy grey, the same color as the sky on this rainy morning in Washington.

Sitting on a swivel chair, superimposed on all that greyness, Rose Merriman gave off a technicolor sheen, like Dorothy first stepping out of Kansas. Her feet were ruddy brown, her sandals vivid red, her skirt a rich olive green which set off her light yellow shirt and damp yellow hair. Leaning forward on the facing couch, scanning her from toe to head, he thought "She is so more than just a good–looking woman. She's opportunity itself."

"So what do you think?" he asked. "You want the story?"

She smiled doubtfully, not trusting Corbin, not sure what he was really after. She opened up the dossier he'd given her and leafed through the contents: AP releases, address lists, photos of protestors, a Times interview with Jenny Lemke—National Chairperson of the Fetal Rights League.

"You're exactly the right one," he said.

"Come on, Joseph! I'm a photographer. You're asking me to write."

"I've read your latest book and you're a fine writer."

"What you 'read' was a picture book."

"A picture book with copy." He stretched his long brown fingers around his knees and cracked his knuckles. "Why do you want to hide behind your camera, behind another writer? Why not do the pictures and the words?"

She laughed. "I'm always happy to work with talented writers."

"Never jealous of the exposure?"

"Never!"

He sat calmly, smiling at her, thinking how beautiful she was. She made him nervous. As a rule he never dated white women. He looked down on black men who did—it was so O.J., so obvious.

"Come on Joseph," she said softly, "why are you asking me to do this?"

A slow smile spread across his face. "Because I need a different consciousness at work here. Most of our writers are—actually the magazine is—known for being sort of liberal and very cocky and male."

"Do tell."

"You know that. Of course you know that. I want a woman, that's a non–negotiable. I wrote down a few names. They probably had thirteen abortions between them. Jenny Lemke would smell them coming a mile away. Really, Rose, I might as well send in Patricia Ireland."

"It would make about as much sense as sending in me."

"No, no, you're special. You have that Catholic schoolgirl air about you."

"I'm pro–choice."

"Sure you are, but you can humanize these people. I know you can."

She looked at the pile of photographs in her lap."Oh, I'm not sure that's true, Joseph."

"Come on." Corbin crossed his legs and folded his arms. "This is just an appearance thing. You have to look right and sound right and ask the right questions in the right way. It's not that I expect you to like any of these people, not really. You know how to tell a story and you're good with human beings, which is more than I can say for a lot of reporters. I can't believe you're going out with an immature little shit like Stannie Colfax, but that's your own business."

She let the remark go. "Which reminds me," she said. "Stannie's in Florida. I was going to take some time off and go down tomorrow, or Monday at the latest. But I know you'd probably want me at that march next week—what day is it?"

"Tuesday."

"So I couldn't be there."

"It's a huge event."

"Well, I know that."

"Doesn't it interest you to see how the anti–choice people handle standing eye to eye with the very women they've terrorized all these years?"

"Actually, it does. I was thinking of going anyway, until Stannie asked—"

"Rose, the number on the yellow ledger there, that's Jenny Lemke at home. At least call her. Try to and interested, like you're on the fence. See if it stirs up something. You'll find the phone number for the Fetal Rights League in there, too."

She sat still for a minute, considering, and then spoke slowly. "I could call her. I'm not really eager for this, though. It's an issue I'm not comfortable with."

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