Copyright 1995(c)

                          GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
                              By Thomas Bell

     "She's gone, Alex," he confessed, almost crying.
     "Of course, she's gone, Barry," said his best friend. "She
told you she would be. She told you to get off the sauce or forget
her and you thought you could still have both. 
     "I'm hurtin', man," said Barry, obviously meaning it.
     "Yeh, buddy," said his friend, "I know. But you keep reopening
the wound yourself. After awhile, people just get bone-tired of
hearing all this lament with no ass-sent, i.e., get off it and do
something about it, you know?" His exasperation showed. 
     And Barry, even in his drunken state, heard it. He was still
far enough from complete intoxication to foolishly think he had
pride he could, somehow, salvage. He generally did this by telling
an inept lie and puffing himself up. At least he always had before
she left.
     "Hey, pal," he slurred, crying openly, "I'm hurtin', here.
CAN'T YOU HEAR ME?"
     "Don't keen at the moon," advised the friend. "Everybody in
the county hears you. They don't want to, though, so you'd better
shape up, Barry. Now I'm taking the phone off the hook."
     There was a thonk. A buzz. Barry cursed and fumbled to dial,
getting a busy signal. Hanging up the phone, picking it up and
banging it down, striking a thumb. If anyone had been there, he'd
have pretended not to feel it. As it was, it was just another hurt
and injustice. It brought tears to his eyes.
     Alex would be sorry when he saw. She would be sorry, too.

     He drove the U-Haul to the front of the federal building and
pulled on the brake, turned off the engine. He climbed from it's
driver's side just a hair off time, caught his jacket in the side
mirror, hesitated and was lost. He scrambled to enter the building
just as it blew itself up.
     Alex would be sorry. So would she. She worked here.

     Sandra Barryn giggled as Steve Dolman poured a tiny little
river of Val Pollacella down her back and cleaned it up with his
tongue. She glanced at the daily news on the motel television set,
preparatory to replacing that distracting animation with music,
when she saw him. He was walking up the front steps as the bomb
detonated. It was clear even on the fuzzy surveillance cameras they
kept turned on at all times -- watching -- those Federal people,
that he intended to enter the building.
     She recognized her ex-husband, Roberto "Barry" Barryn. There
was no reason for him to be there on the government's surveillance
tape. Unless he was up to no good.
     She watched the horror as survivors and others were
identified, and thought about what a loser Barry had been.
     Not just a hopeless drunk, but so damned stupid he blew up a
building before he even found out if she was inside it or not.
     She turned over and poured a bit of Val Pollacella in the
curve of her companion's back. Turnabout was fair play.
     She had six earned days left to spend as she liked. No doubt
they would all be paid until new offices could be located. 
     Stupid Barry had just done her another favor.

                                   -30- 