selling stocks, a glorified Fuller Brush girl. Hi, I'm Corrine, can I interest you in a sexy growth stock or maybe a cute little annuity?
Must be hung over. Of course. Why else run crying from the museum, not that Russell hadn't been horrible. Pompous ass. She was almost mad enough to go into Bergdorfs and charge up one of these nice Donna Karan ensembles with all the accessories. If it were open.
She kept walking, past the fountain in front of the Plaza—called the Fountain of Abundance, dry now. She always thought of this as the navel of the slender island on which she and Russell had camped for five years, having come together as newlyweds with duffel bags and dreams, after their Wanderjahre and grad schools and their halfhearted, experimental attempts to live without each other. Coming here to be grown-ups, she starting Columbia Law, so as to fight injustice in its many guises; he still thinking of himself as a writer then, the publishing job as a temporary expedient, a way of paying the rent till he became a famous poet. And though those two dreams quietly expired, she usually believed she and Russell were happy, that the city had been good to them, that they had been good to each other.
Approaching the apartment building she saw an ancient man attacked by two kids. One kid held him up while the other slapped and punched his face. As they fled, Corrine rushed forward. Having struggled up to a sitting position, the man was holding his hand to his bloodied face. Corrine held out her own hand. "Are you all right?"
"I don't want help," he said, not looking up at her.
"Take my hand. Do you want an ambulance?"
"Go away."
"You're bleeding."
"Can't you see I don't want your help? Leave me alone!" Tears of rage were streaming from his eyes. When Corrine reached down once more he swung his cane around and whacked her hip, flailing at her until she retreated out of range.
"Leave me alone," he screamed.
When Corrine looked back from the next corner he was on his knees, struggling furiously to attain his feet before anyone else offered help.
Her name was Simone. Russell didn't ask what had happened to her friend, and she didn't allude to his wedding band, though she certainly noticed it, just as he noticed the heavy gold tank watch beneath the sleeve of her sweatshirt. On the weekends there were two ways to determine someone's tax bracket: watch and shoes.
Sitting across from her in the museum café, Russell talked about his job—she had heard of Jeff and another of his authors, and had a Gallic as opposed to an American view of the profession of letters, which is to say she wasn't disappointed to find that he was not an investment banker or a soap opera star. She didn't seem to be the kind of person who ever had to settle on any one thing in terms of employment, but most recently she'd worked as a wildlife photographer on an expedition in Tanzania. "I am thinking of joining an expedition up the Amazon," she said, her English flawless though accented, a little more precise than a native speaker's, and it turned out she was one of those people who'd been reared in the middle of the Atlantic—as much a New Yorker as a Parisian. "But I don't know. I think I'd like to do something completely different this time, you know?"
Russell had been imagining the viscous tropical air of the jungle, the screech of gaudy birds overhead, Simone straddling the bow of a tub reminiscent of the African Queen, a profane figurehead with tan thighs scanning the underbrush with a zoom lens... tan thighs misted with blond hairs glistening like gold in the bottom of a prospector's pan, tailings from the golden city of El Dorado.
He saw now why his opinion of her charms had varied over the course of an hour; she was not indisputably beautiful in stasis, but the slightest speech or motion exposed a sexual essence.
"Do you like Giacometti," she asked.
He nodded.
"My father has one." She paused and then said, "Maybe you'd like to come over and
Must be hung over. Of course. Why else run crying from the museum, not that Russell hadn't been horrible. Pompous ass. She was almost mad enough to go into Bergdorfs and charge up one of these nice Donna Karan ensembles with all the accessories. If it were open.
She kept walking, past the fountain in front of the Plaza—called the Fountain of Abundance, dry now. She always thought of this as the navel of the slender island on which she and Russell had camped for five years, having come together as newlyweds with duffel bags and dreams, after their Wanderjahre and grad schools and their halfhearted, experimental attempts to live without each other. Coming here to be grown-ups, she starting Columbia Law, so as to fight injustice in its many guises; he still thinking of himself as a writer then, the publishing job as a temporary expedient, a way of paying the rent till he became a famous poet. And though those two dreams quietly expired, she usually believed she and Russell were happy, that the city had been good to them, that they had been good to each other.
Approaching the apartment building she saw an ancient man attacked by two kids. One kid held him up while the other slapped and punched his face. As they fled, Corrine rushed forward. Having struggled up to a sitting position, the man was holding his hand to his bloodied face. Corrine held out her own hand. "Are you all right?"
"I don't want help," he said, not looking up at her.
"Take my hand. Do you want an ambulance?"
"Go away."
"You're bleeding."
"Can't you see I don't want your help? Leave me alone!" Tears of rage were streaming from his eyes. When Corrine reached down once more he swung his cane around and whacked her hip, flailing at her until she retreated out of range.
"Leave me alone," he screamed.
When Corrine looked back from the next corner he was on his knees, struggling furiously to attain his feet before anyone else offered help.
Her name was Simone. Russell didn't ask what had happened to her friend, and she didn't allude to his wedding band, though she certainly noticed it, just as he noticed the heavy gold tank watch beneath the sleeve of her sweatshirt. On the weekends there were two ways to determine someone's tax bracket: watch and shoes.
Sitting across from her in the museum café, Russell talked about his job—she had heard of Jeff and another of his authors, and had a Gallic as opposed to an American view of the profession of letters, which is to say she wasn't disappointed to find that he was not an investment banker or a soap opera star. She didn't seem to be the kind of person who ever had to settle on any one thing in terms of employment, but most recently she'd worked as a wildlife photographer on an expedition in Tanzania. "I am thinking of joining an expedition up the Amazon," she said, her English flawless though accented, a little more precise than a native speaker's, and it turned out she was one of those people who'd been reared in the middle of the Atlantic—as much a New Yorker as a Parisian. "But I don't know. I think I'd like to do something completely different this time, you know?"
Russell had been imagining the viscous tropical air of the jungle, the screech of gaudy birds overhead, Simone straddling the bow of a tub reminiscent of the African Queen, a profane figurehead with tan thighs scanning the underbrush with a zoom lens... tan thighs misted with blond hairs glistening like gold in the bottom of a prospector's pan, tailings from the golden city of El Dorado.
He saw now why his opinion of her charms had varied over the course of an hour; she was not indisputably beautiful in stasis, but the slightest speech or motion exposed a sexual essence.
"Do you like Giacometti," she asked.
He nodded.
"My father has one." She paused and then said, "Maybe you'd like to come over and
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