Judy Greer

She will be sure to say a biento when she leaves.

Martin dresses for dinner in neat gray trousers and a jewel blue shirt.

You look handsome, Monica says.

It has become easier to compliment him with every day that passes, with every day closer to her leaving.

I bought a few little souvenirs for my mother today, she says.

She sees that he did buy wine.

There are four bottles lined up neatly on the desk she has been using as a vanity.

Her leaving.

To where?

She has not allowed herself to think of this yet.

Have you bought anything for yourself yet?

You should pick something out.

You know better what you like than I do.

She has not, but she has, wrapped in fragile tissue and tied with black silk cord, a package tucked into the corner of her suitcase, a pair of jade and sterling cufflinks she bought for him the day they arrived.

They struck her as exactly the sort of gift Elizabeth would have chosen for her own husband, striking in their anachronism what Monica's mother would call a conversation piece.

The elderly shop owner had complimented Monica on her taste as he wrapped them, his English as archaic as his merchandise, and for a moment she was proud of herself, of finding the shop, going in alone, of counting out euros.

She has no idea when she will give them to Martin, and only after she got them back to the hotel and hidden them away did she become convinced that he would be disgusted with her, that he would think she meant them as some sort of awful consolation prize.

Are you coming down for drinks with us, she says.

She is dressed carefully in a simple black dress and red shoes, the shoes bought as a surprise by Elizabeth earlier in the week.

No woman should go through life without a spectacular pair of red shoes, she said, handing the bag across the table where they'd met for lunch.