The lights poured down onto the heavily-furnished, pastel-intensive set of a daytime-TV talk show. From front to back and side to side were hundreds of desperate, single women. Along with them, aging housewives and their deadbeat husbands also filled the seats; each and every soul looking for the easy answers to the difficulties of life.

Cheesy swing music backed by airy trumpet notes and irregular drumbeats began to seep into the air. The bright red "applause" signs scattered above the house flickered on and the audience roared into action. The thick voice of an over-enthused announcer boomed through the black-speakers placed throughout the studio. And then it happened: a balding man in his mid-40's crept from the shadows of backstage and climbed on stage. His cheap polyester suit almost glistened in the limelight while his equally-cheap smile filled the camera lenses aimed at his bust.

The first row of fans stood up to meet the host's heralded entrance. He sauntered over to greet them, reaching out his weathered old hand by instinct, clasping the clammy, tout flesh of those in front of him. A tired, greasy-looking man in a flannel over-shirt motioned for the host to wrap things up.

Phillip Darling, the TV-show psychologist, now finished with his obligatory hospitality, backed away into the center of the set keeping air of his false modesty, pleading with the audience to stop. "Settle down folks, you're too kind."

The applause signs lingered for a second, giving Phillip a little taste of love's vanities before they were finally shut off. The rumble died.

The lights in the audience dimmed as the lights on the set turned brighter. Phillip was already sweating. "Good afternoon, folks. I'll get right to it and tell you that today's show will be a little different from the others. Instead of our usual opening segment, I've decided to try something new. As you could probably assume, we get plenty of letters sent to the show, and the director and I decided that it would be a nice change of pace to read a few of them before we get started."

In reality, the so-called psychologist could care less about what the millions of viewers at home thought of him. He didn't want to hear about what was going on in their lives or what problems they were or weren't having. But he did want a raise, and because this particular Monday was the beginning of network sweeps, the only way he could get it was to agree on doing the ridiculous segment every Monday morning for the entire week.

Without delay, he pulled out three envelopes from the inside of his coat pocket. "Okay. This first letter here is from Paula Rhinestone of Plattsville, Massachusetts." He ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter inside. He proceeded to read through the letter, skipping the sappy sentences and uninteresting paragraphs. He made a half-hearted attempt to answer the question and solve the problem. He continued to do the same with the next.

As Phillip went to open the third letter, he made a comment on how somebody had slipped it under his door that morning. "Let's see what surprises this one holds."

The director, standing behind camera three, looked frantically at the other crewmembers, confused as to why Phillip wouldn't stick with the script. "Shouldn't he be reading Barbara Halloway's letter now?"

The audience waited patiently as he ripped open the envelope, peering inside at the powder the envelope contained. His eyebrows slanted inward in bafflement. He lifted the envelope and turned it sideways, letting the white particles fall into his hand. A small cloud of dust rose from his palm and passed up into his lungs, rousing a fierce cough to burst through his throat and out of his mouth into the lavaliere pinned on his shirt. The audience watched as the TV-Show psychologist collapsed to his knees, fighting for air.

The room fell silent. Phillip gave in and fell to the ground, completely still. The director ran onto the set, screaming for a commercial.

The director kicked the envelope away, trying not to inhale whatever had scattered across the ground. He pulled Phillip away from the view of the cameras and leaned him against one of the couches on the platform. He smacked Phillips's cheek, trying to wake him, and listened for a breath. No breath. No pulse. No nothing. Phillip was dead.

The next afternoon, a rerun played.