Practical Demonkeeping

plastic surgery, change hair color, take a handful of Valium, appeal to the Goddess for divine intervention, stand here and explore the possibilities of paralyzing panic .
    She opened the door and smiled. “Hi.”
    Travis stood there in jeans and a gray herringbone tweed jacket. He was transfixed.
    “Travis?” Jenny said.
    “You’re beautiful,” he said finally.
    They stood in the doorway, Jenny blushing, Travis staring. Jenny had decided to stick with the black dress. Evidently it had been the right choice. A full minute passed without a word between them.
    “Would you like to come in?”
    “No.”
    “Okay.” She shut the door in his face. Well, that hadn’t been so bad. Now she could put on some sweatpants, load the refrigerator onto a tray, and settle down for a night in front of the television.
    There was a timid knock on the door. Jenny opened it again. “Sorry, I’m a little nervous,” she said.
    “It’s all right,” Travis said. “Shall we go?”
    “Sure. I’ll get my purse.” She closed the door in his face.
    There was an uncomfortable silence between them while they drove to the restaurant. Typically, this would be the time for trading life stories, but Jenny had resolved not to talk about her marriage, which closed most of her adult life to conversation, and Travis had resolved not to talk about the demon, which eliminated most of the twentieth century.
    “So,” Jenny said, “do you like Italian food?”
    “Yep,” Travis said. They drove in silence the rest of the way to the restaurant.
    It was a warm night and the Toyota had no air conditioning. Jenny didn’t dare roll down the window and risk blowing her hair. She had spent an hour styling and pinning it back so that it fell in long curls to the middle of her back. When she began to perspire, she remembered that she still had two wads of toilet paper tucked under her arms to stop the bleeding from shaving cuts. For the next few minutes all she could think of was getting to a restroom where she could remove the spotted wads. She decided not to mention it.
    The restaurant, the Old Italian Pasta Factory, was housed in an old creamery building, a remnant of the time when Pine Cove’s economy was based on livestock rather than tourism. The concrete floors remained intact, as did the corrugated steel roof. The owners had taken care to preserve the rusticity of the structure, while adding the warmth of a fireplace, soft lighting, and the traditional red-and-white tablecloths of an Italian restaurant. The tables were small but comfortably spaced, and each was decorated with fresh flowers and a candle. The Pasta Factory, it was agreed, was the most romantic restaurant in the area.
    As soon as the hostess seated them, Jenny excused herself to the restroom.
    “Order whatever wine you want,” she said, “I’m not picky.”
    “I don’t drink, but if you want some…”
    “No, that’s fine. It’ll be a nice change.”
    As soon as Jenny left, the waitress—an efficient-looking woman in her thirties—came to the table.
    “Good evening, sir. What can I bring you to drink this evening?” She pulled her order pad out of her pocket in a quick, liquid movement, like a gunslinger drawing a six-shooter. A career waitress, Travis thought.
    “I thought I’d wait for the lady to return,” he said.
    “Oh, Jenny. She’ll have an herbal tea. And you want, let’s see…” She looked him up and down, crossed-referenced him, pigeonholed him, and announced, “ You’ll have some sort of imported beer, right?”
    “I don’t drink, so…”
    “I should have known.” The waitress slapped her forehead as if she’d just caught herself in the middle of a grave error, like serving the salad with plutonium instead of creamy Italian. “Her husband is a drunk; it’s only natural that she’d go out with a nondrinker on the rebound. Can I bring you a mineral water?”
    “That would be fine,” Travis said.
    The waitress’s pen scratched, but she did not look at the order pad or lose her “we aim to please” smile. “And would you like some garlic bread while you’re waiting?”
    “Sure,” Travis said. He watched the waitress walk away. She took small, quick, mechanical steps, and was gone to the kitchen in an instant. Travis wondered why some people seemed to be able to walk faster than he could run. They’re professionals, he thought.
    Jenny took five minutes to get all the toilet paper unstuck from her underarms, and there had been