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Veronica Runbird looks at her hand laid over the curve of Harley's back. Ms. and Mr. Halftone, she thinks, ivory and ebony, coal and snow. Just like TV from the thirties before Marshall McLuhan discovered the theory of living color. Though in fact it's not a matter of black and white but shades of gray. The radiance of the tube turns their bodies turn to shadow, and if these shadows have offended, well....
They've made love with the TV going again, an unbreakable habit from his days on the newsbeat. He can't for a moment give up the input. She'll check sometimes while sucking his cock; if his eye starts to wander she knows what to do, but still. A lover shouldn't have to put up with this.
Dear daughters and sons unborn, she reflects, never lay you down with a television journalist. But when you do, pull all the plugs in the room first.
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