she’d softened her stance. So that her
old nemesis struck her as a harmless if pitiable eccentric. “Hello, Ms. Ryan,” Wendy began, as Paige assumed the seat opposite
her at a wooden table beneath a decrepit-looking piñata. “And how goes it in the world of ruthless capitalism?”
“If you’re referring to the private sector and its notorious largesse, then the answer is, swimmingly,” answered Paige.
“Glad to hear it.”
“And the arena of naive left-wing journalism? Is it treating you well?”
“Very well, thank you,” said Wendy.
Sara appeared next, followed by Maura, then Gretchen and Pamela. There were hugs and kisses all around. Wendy spent so much
more time emailing her friends than she did seeing them in person that the sight of them in all their fleshy (and not-so-fleshy—a.k.a.
Maura) splendor left her somehow startled.
Not surprisingly, Daphne was the last to show. (Wendy had long ago adjusted to Daphne’s Lateness Problem by mentally adding
a half hour to all of her stated arrival times.) She was wearing a pair of old brown corduroys, a mustard-colored V-neck sweater
dotted with moth holes, and a navy blue pea coat whose epaulets had become detached from its shoulders. On anyone else, the
outfit would have looked ratty. “I love my friends!” she was squealing as she approached the table, her arms outstretched,
her head tilted just so. She hugged Pamela first and went clockwise around the table from there. When she got to Wendy, she
announced, “Wen—I’m so sorry I haven’t answered your email yet from this afternoon!”
Wendy felt embarrassed, lest anyone at the table think she’d lost the ability to receive an instant response from her reputed
best friend. “Don’t worry about it,” she said quickly. In fact, as Wendy reflected on the email she’d sent—a request that
Daphne pass on the name and number of her masseuse, so Wendy could give it to her friend at the dry cleaners, Grace, who was
still sore from having been hit by a bus—she realized how random it must have seemed. In truth, she wasn’t entirely sure why
she’d written it.
“Is your dry cleaner okay?” asked Daphne.
“She’s going to be fine,” Wendy told her.
“Well, that’s good.” Daphne sat down at the one available seat—to Wendy’s right—only to turn her attentions to her own right,
where Wendy’s do-gooder friend Gretchen sat. “So, am I wrong?” Daphne began, one eyebrow raised. “Or has a certain someone
not been in Bali, honeymooning with their husband, four years after the fact?”
“Guilty as charged,” conceded Gretchen.
“The only crime is the color of your face,” said Sara. She turned to the others. “Gretch didn’t get the memo on tanning.”
“Thanks, Sar,” said Gretchen, whose cheeks and forehead were indeed the color of a shiny penny. “Just like you didn’t get
the memo on not being a bitch.”
“Hey, you two,” said Wendy, secretly tickled to see Sara and Gretchen fighting. “No more bickering like an old married couple.
You sound like Adam and me.”
“Who’s bickering?” said Sara.
“Not me,” said Gretchen, shrugging.
“Do you and Adam really fight?” asked Pamela, looking mystified by the concept.
“It only turns physically violent, like, one out of three times,” Wendy assured her.
Pamela, whose many virtues failed to include a sense of humor, looked even more stunned.
“Sara’s just pissed she’s part of an old
un
married couple,” offered Gretchen.
“Thanks, Gretch,” said Sara.
“Don’t thank me,” said Gretchen. “Thank Dolph. I’m sorry, but you should really give him an ultimatum already. I mean, how
many years has it been now?”
“Someone get these two to arbitration,” muttered Maura.
“Wait—time out!” cried Daphne, her palm raised. She turned to Pamela. “Pammy, I’m dying to know—how’s Baby Luke?”
“A little colicky,” Pamela said breezily. “But nothing
old nemesis struck her as a harmless if pitiable eccentric. “Hello, Ms. Ryan,” Wendy began, as Paige assumed the seat opposite
her at a wooden table beneath a decrepit-looking piñata. “And how goes it in the world of ruthless capitalism?”
“If you’re referring to the private sector and its notorious largesse, then the answer is, swimmingly,” answered Paige.
“Glad to hear it.”
“And the arena of naive left-wing journalism? Is it treating you well?”
“Very well, thank you,” said Wendy.
Sara appeared next, followed by Maura, then Gretchen and Pamela. There were hugs and kisses all around. Wendy spent so much
more time emailing her friends than she did seeing them in person that the sight of them in all their fleshy (and not-so-fleshy—a.k.a.
Maura) splendor left her somehow startled.
Not surprisingly, Daphne was the last to show. (Wendy had long ago adjusted to Daphne’s Lateness Problem by mentally adding
a half hour to all of her stated arrival times.) She was wearing a pair of old brown corduroys, a mustard-colored V-neck sweater
dotted with moth holes, and a navy blue pea coat whose epaulets had become detached from its shoulders. On anyone else, the
outfit would have looked ratty. “I love my friends!” she was squealing as she approached the table, her arms outstretched,
her head tilted just so. She hugged Pamela first and went clockwise around the table from there. When she got to Wendy, she
announced, “Wen—I’m so sorry I haven’t answered your email yet from this afternoon!”
Wendy felt embarrassed, lest anyone at the table think she’d lost the ability to receive an instant response from her reputed
best friend. “Don’t worry about it,” she said quickly. In fact, as Wendy reflected on the email she’d sent—a request that
Daphne pass on the name and number of her masseuse, so Wendy could give it to her friend at the dry cleaners, Grace, who was
still sore from having been hit by a bus—she realized how random it must have seemed. In truth, she wasn’t entirely sure why
she’d written it.
“Is your dry cleaner okay?” asked Daphne.
“She’s going to be fine,” Wendy told her.
“Well, that’s good.” Daphne sat down at the one available seat—to Wendy’s right—only to turn her attentions to her own right,
where Wendy’s do-gooder friend Gretchen sat. “So, am I wrong?” Daphne began, one eyebrow raised. “Or has a certain someone
not been in Bali, honeymooning with their husband, four years after the fact?”
“Guilty as charged,” conceded Gretchen.
“The only crime is the color of your face,” said Sara. She turned to the others. “Gretch didn’t get the memo on tanning.”
“Thanks, Sar,” said Gretchen, whose cheeks and forehead were indeed the color of a shiny penny. “Just like you didn’t get
the memo on not being a bitch.”
“Hey, you two,” said Wendy, secretly tickled to see Sara and Gretchen fighting. “No more bickering like an old married couple.
You sound like Adam and me.”
“Who’s bickering?” said Sara.
“Not me,” said Gretchen, shrugging.
“Do you and Adam really fight?” asked Pamela, looking mystified by the concept.
“It only turns physically violent, like, one out of three times,” Wendy assured her.
Pamela, whose many virtues failed to include a sense of humor, looked even more stunned.
“Sara’s just pissed she’s part of an old
un
married couple,” offered Gretchen.
“Thanks, Gretch,” said Sara.
“Don’t thank me,” said Gretchen. “Thank Dolph. I’m sorry, but you should really give him an ultimatum already. I mean, how
many years has it been now?”
“Someone get these two to arbitration,” muttered Maura.
“Wait—time out!” cried Daphne, her palm raised. She turned to Pamela. “Pammy, I’m dying to know—how’s Baby Luke?”
“A little colicky,” Pamela said breezily. “But nothing
Similar Books
