In retrospect, I know she was wearing the pantsuit, although my impression of her clothing is mixing with the stock-photo that accompanies the article. “Molesworth introduced herself at the podium in a silky, black pantsuit." Vankin didn't mention that “Good fences make good neighbors.” B called my name as I entered the auditorium so I joined him. I thought I saw the back of Kr's head (her curls), and T was sitting across the aisle.
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You take the containers from the fridge:
sun-dried tomatoes
little red beets
artichokes
olives (old)
We sit at the table. I eat more quickly than you. The wine is Malbec. We use cloth napkins. You have lipstick that matches your nails: mauve. Today, I notice your hair before your eyes. You have it done once a week, you say, which is all the washing and brushing it needs. You have it cut and blown-dry, and then, with the passage of each day, it begins to settle and grow soft and flatter the contours of your face. While you don't wash your hair, or lather your arms, legs, and torso (the doctor says you must wary of over-drying your skin), you take a nightly shower as the steam calms you before sleep. Your son bought a cashmere jacket for the benefit and has an Hermes necktie you bought him years ago and has just gotten some slacks: which is a new development for him: this kind of dressing. You told me you don't know how you survived your marriage all those years, knowing nothing and having no direction as you did. But E grew to love you, if he didn't in the beginning. You loved him. You you wanted him. He needed a wife. I'm sure it was more even. I told you my apartment is small, so there isn't much chance of catching a chill at night.