Switcheroo by Goldsmith Olivia Page A

that freckled, sandy-haired thing, till this wife. Not even pretty. Johnny Carson did it, too. Remember? They even had the same name: Joanna, Joanne, Joan, Joanna, Joanna.” She paused and lowered her voice. “My theory is he did that because he was scared he’d yell out the wrong name in the middle of the night.”
    “But this isn’t Hollywood, it’s Shaker Heights,” Sylvie protested.
    “Hey, it’s an epidemic all over the country! Trump did it in New York. Marla for Ivana. And now I hear he’s got an even younger one. She looks just the same.”
    Sylvie was dumbfounded. The girl’s looks, her stream of consciousness conversation, the strange surroundings all seemed surreal. Next she’d see a melting clock. “Where did you come from?” Sylvie asked.
    “The sky…I’m a stewardess. I mean, a flight attendant. I met Bobby on a flight.”
    She remembered her anger. “ Bobby ! He lets you call him Bobby ?” Sylvie asked, outraged.
    The girl ignored her question. “I really didn’t know he was married.”
    “Yeah. Like you asked,” Sylvie retorted bitterly.
    “…he didn’t even have a wedding band tan line,” M. Molensky said, trying to explain. “Don’t ask. Don’t tell. That was my motto even before the army stole it from me.”
    Sylvie couldn’t help but take a good look at the way this little piece of work was put together. She might be an inch or two taller than Sylvie, or perhaps it was just her willowy thinness that gave the illusion of it. And that hair! “I’ll bet you were a cheerleader,” Sylvie, jealous, said accusingly.
    “Do you have psychic tendencies too?” M. Molensky asked.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Well, you’re close. I was a majorette,” she said proudly.
    “What’s the difference?” Sylvie snapped back.
    “Hey, there’s a big one, especially in the uniforms…sometimes I like to dress in uniforms,” M. Molensky admitted.
    “Oh, I’m sure you do. And what do you do, then? Play sex games with my husband? You know, like The Pilot and The Stewardess.”
    “Actually, he prefers—”
    Sylvie raised her hand, arm extended, palm facing the girl, before she could hear more. “Talk to the fist,” she said, clenching her hand. She didn’t want to know details, at least not now. “So this isn’t the first time that you were involved with somebody else’s husband?” Sylvie asked, her voice turning bitter. “Don’t you know how wrong adultery is?”
    “I don’t commit adultery!” M. Molensky said defensively. “I’m not even married.”
    “Don’t you think about the women who are? The ones married to the Bobbys?” Sylvie demanded. “How what you do makes other women suffer?”
    “No.”
    “It never occurred to you that you were making somebody’s wife suffer?” Sylvie asked, her voice raised high in disbelief.
    “You think I don’t suffer? Like I don’t spend Christmas and Valentine’s Day alone? Like I don’t always get my presents from Bobby late?”
    “Presents?” Sylvie shrieked. “ Presents ?” She refrained from smacking the girl, but it took all her willpower. Instead, she reached toward the mirror and, desperate to express her fury, she smeared M. Molensky’s image with a handful of the quince cream. M. Molensky’s eyes opened wide. (Sylvie couldn’t help but notice they didn’t have a single crow’s-foot.)Then, in retaliation, M. Molensky smeared over Sylvie’s reflected face in the mirror. Images blurred with the grease, they turned to face one another directly.
    “You’re the lucky one, you know,” the girl said. “I don’t have the comfort or security of a legalized relationship. And that’s because I don’t have anyone in this whole wide world to count on.”
    “What about your family?”
    The girl walked away from Sylvie. “What family? My mother left me on Santa Claus’s lap when I was four.” She shrugged. “Well, sometimes I do write to my brother, but he’s not great at answering. He’s probably real busy at the