“A fitting? Are we talking about your bridesmaid’s dress again?” Confusion and warm wine—tasting of jam, minus the childhood satisfaction—were my companions after a day of literary solitude in the apartment. PAGING: Algonquin round table. PAGING: New York intelligentsia. Where are you?
“Not a dress, a guy—my new guy. We’re discussing my new guy,” she said, looking exasperated.
“So what’s a ‘fitting’?”
“You know…” she said, peering into the great jammy depths of her cheap Australian import.
The wide eyes and pursed lips meant that she was either searching her liquid crystal ball for a modicum of restraint or about to start in on her favorite subject—sex.